Miriam's Well Page 10

  And meanwhile, with 400,000 strikes against us and all the umpires shouting YER OUT!!, we stayed in the game and got closer and closer. As my mother says, go figure.

  Though we had a prima facie case against getting elected Homecoming King and Queen or Senior Class Couple of the Year, we were maintaining the status quo, if I can toss in some pretty impressive debate terminology.

  But I wondered what would happen when the case changed. It was just a matter of time.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Told by Miriam

  Even though everything was different now, nothing was changed. At school, Adam still had his real friends. I’d see him tearing down the hall after Brent to beg a ride home, or hanging around Diana’s locker. Oh, I’d get a smile when he passed me, or a quick “Hi, Miriam,” but we both knew I was to leave him alone and expect nothing at school.

  Diana’s locker was two away from mine, and she was always luring him over there. He was uncomfortable, I know. I really didn’t want to hear what they talked about, but I couldn’t help it; it’s like you can’t help listening when you hear people talking on the other side of a wall, even if they’re saying things that make your ears burn.

  Diana said, “Tomorrow night’s the Thanksgiving dance. You haven’t said anything about it. Oh, hi, Miriam, how are you doing? Well, Adam, are we going?”

  “I’ll call you,” Adam said.

  “No, just let me know now. If you want to go, I’ll buy the tickets before the StuCo window closes. You can drive my car if you want to.”

  “I can borrow my mother’s Jeep, it’s okay.”

  “Oh, Adam, the Jeep? Well, we’ll talk about it. My car’s really comfortable.” She turned coy and flirty all of a sudden. “I’m getting a new dress for the dance, something revolutionary.”

  “I’ll call you tonight,” Adam said.

  “You know, Adam, I get the feeling you don’t really want to go. It doesn’t matter. My mom and I are flying to the Bahamas early on Thursday anyway.”

  “We’re going,” Adam mumbled.

  “Not a chance,” Diana said, slamming her locker.

  It was almost funny, Adam squirming as he was. I shut my locker and went to catch the city bus, but I walked slowly enough that Adam could catch up with me if he wanted to.

  I waved the first bus by and waited, and there he came, in those bleached jeans and holey, unlaced sneakers, with his books hooked under his left arm at his hip. My heart beat faster whenever he came near me, and I was pretty sure my cheeks were flushed.

  “So, are you going?” I asked.

  “Am I in a mess,” Adam said with a grin.

  “Well, you don’t owe me anything, if that’s the problem.”

  “You’re not the problem. I really want to spend some time with you, but I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out where we could go. No dancing?”

  I shook my head.

  “No movies.”

  “No, again.”

  “No rock concerts, no video games. And you’d freak out at the kind of parties some of the Eisenhower kids have.”

  “No liquor,” I said, fighting back a smile.

  “So, what can we do?”

  “You mean things that cost, or things that are free?”

  “Let’s look at free, first.” Good old Adam.

  “Playgrounds. It’s still not too cold. Do you like swings?”

  “Not since I was maybe eight.”

  “Well, then, Frisbee?”

  “I used to be pretty good with a Frisbee, until I broke a neighbor’s window,” Adam said. “Also, once I fell off a curb catching a Frisbee my brother shot my way. I ended up on crutches. Eric laughed for a week.”

  “Oh, well, about ninety percent of my throws would probably land over your head, anyway.”

  “Doubt it,” he said, all masculine pride.

  “We could windowshop at Towne East or Clifton Square.”

  “I see you’ve got a lot of excitement in your life. How do you come down off of such highs?”

  “Okay, there are lots of museums in town,” I suggested, just slightly annoyed. We might never find one single thing we both liked to do.

  “But we’d have to stay away from the nudes.”

  I blushed; how mortifying not to be able to control blushing.

  “The Mid-America All Indian Center isn’t a bad idea. My mother’s always talking about it. They make Indian tacos or something.”

  “I like the Indian Center,” I agreed.

  “Saturday night?”

  I shook my head. “Wednesday after school. We get out early for Thanksgiving. You don’t go to museums much, do you? They’re closed Saturday night.” Another bus was coming. “I’ve got to get on the bus. I’ll see you, but not see you, tomorrow,” I said, and he agreed.

  I twisted at a funny angle to slide into the seat and felt a pull at my back. I needed exercise. My muscles were as weak as a rag doll’s. I promised myself I’d do sit-ups and bend-overs when I got home.

  That night before the men came home, I told Mama that I had a nondate with Adam.

  “Well, baby, is that a good idea?”

  “We’re just going to the Indian Center after school tomorrow. It’s not like a personal-type date.”

  Mama sighed. She painted hamburgers with A-1 Sauce and slid them under the broiler. “I’m not easy with it, baby.”

  “Are you worried about what the men will say?”

  “Just a bit. Aren’t you?”

  “They’re too strict with me, Mama.”

  She sliced tomatoes and arranged them in a circle on a little saucer. “They give us strength, Miriam. We need men in our lives.” She sighed again. “But I’ll talk to them. I’ll make sure they don’t say anything to you about it. You’ll be gone tomorrow, when till when?”

  “I’ll hurry home from school and he’ll pick me up here. We’ll be home before dark. Can Adam stay for supper?”

  Mama thought a moment. “I don’t believe so, baby.”

  When the men came in for supper, she motioned for them to follow her to the back of the house for a talking-to.

  They never said a word to me about my nondate with Adam Bergen. When he picked me up Mama watched from the kitchen door, as we got into the car. I had some trouble climbing the high step of the Jeep because I was stiff from exercising. I knew that in a day or two, the sore muscles would smooth out. I was really out of shape.

  Mama waved shyly. “Drive carefully,” she said.

  Adam drove like a madman. I was glad there was a seat belt law in Kansas. He seemed to focus a lot of his energy on his driving, since he had absolutely no sense of direction and never seemed to be in the right lane.

  “Turn here, HERE!”

  “Back there?”

  “We’ll never get there alive,” I groaned.

  “I always get where I’m going alive, so far. Relax.”

  Roundabout, we found the Indian Center. How beautiful it was! It seemed to dwell so naturally in autumn, with the colors of the leaves and shedding trees outside repeated in the woven blankets and leather tools and stark paintings inside.

  We followed the drum beat coming from a back room of the museum. The thin, forlorn wail of a wooden flute announced our entrance to the model Plains Indian village.

  “I wouldn’t mind living this way,” Adam said. I could just picture it: Adam sleeping on a mat on the floor, Adam grinding his own cornmeal, Adam weaving a loincloth, Adam whittling, sewing beads, spearing game, beating drums. He’d do these things while watching a TV program he’d taped on his VCR, while eating microwave popcorn, while getting the latest stock quotes on his computer modem.

  “You couldn’t survive twenty-four hours,” I said. “How many days can you live without pizza.”

  “At least two.”

  “And then you’d break out in hives?”

  “Oh, so you think you’d make a terrific Indian squaw? Going out to shoot dinner with babies strapped to the front and back of you.
You’d spend all day grinding up buffalo meat and cooking meals for the menfolk. When would you have time to read poetry?”

  “Well, I’d be better adapted to it than you are, because I’m used to a simpler life. Can you ride a horse?”

  “Who rides a horse? I didn’t even have to do it at camp. Have you ever been on a horse?”

  “Maybe.” I couldn’t actually remember yes or no, so it wasn’t, strictly speaking, a lie. “Oh, look here, it’s the chief’s tent.” We parted the canvas flap of the tent and sat down on the dirt floor inside. A traditional chief’s headdress hung on a hook, with a small plaque under it saying AUTHENTIC—PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH. Adam touched. “I knew you couldn’t resist.”

  “I just had to know if they were soft like goose feathers or stiff as a pigeon’s.”

  “Or maybe vulture feathers?” I teased. “Hope is the thing with feathers”—I remembered the line so well, but he’d probably forgotten about the vultures.

  We wandered out of the village to look at the paintings of thin, haunted faces that gazed off into a hostile horizon or rode toward the viewer with a haughty daring; of brown mothers holding brown babies with wet, dark hair; of old chiefs’ portraits showing faces etched by time and the prairie winds.

  In the center arena, a crowd was gathering. Kids younger than we were and old grandmothers and grandfathers were slipping into their native dress: feathers, beads, leather slippers, woolen shawls, belts of sisal and jute. Some wore the shawls over denim skirts or jeans and T-shirts, as though the last century and the present one had come together in a colorful collage.

  Adam was drawn toward the music. “Does the music bother you?” he asked.

  “I have no objection to music.”

  “What is it then, the dancing?”

  “It depends on the purpose.”

  “Suppose the purpose is to celebrate life,” Adam said. “Don’t they look like they’re having a fantastic celebration of Indian life?”

  “Well, I guess it’s all right then.”

  “You want to dance?”

  “We’re not Native Americans, Adam,” and while I was sorry at that moment that we weren’t, I was glad that what we both were not was the same thing, for a change.

  On the harrowing ride home, Adam asked, “Well, what museum do we go to next? You want to go to Cowtown?”

  “I have an idea, but you’ll hate it.”

  “The Indian Center turned out okay. Run your idea by me.”

  “It’s not much fun, but think about it anyway. On Friday the judge is making me have another bone scan.”

  The color drained out of Adam’s face. “You’re not—?”

  I shook my head. “No, but until your dad gets this all straightened out, I have to do what they say or they’ll take me away from my mother and stick me in a foster home.”

  “Maybe the bone scan’s a good idea.”

  “It’s not a good idea, Adam, but what choice do I have? Anyway, I know everything’s okay. So, do you want to come to a bone scan?”

  “That sounds like a wild time. How do I dress, in a surgical scrub suit?”

  “In pajamas. It starts at seven in the morning.”

  “I don’t sleep in pajamas.”

  “Oh, good grief, I’m not going to ask what you sleep in.”

  “I’ll dress before I come. So, what happens at seven?”

  “They inject this dye stuff into me.” I remembered the chilling effect of the dye and shivered. “Then I have to sit around for three hours while it spreads all over my body. That’s when we could do something, to pass the time in the hospital lounge before I’m ready for the bone scan.”

  “What could we do, play cards?”

  “No cards. I’ll bring a jigsaw puzzle,” I said, testing his reaction.

  “How many pieces?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “I’ll bet you we can finish it in under two hours,” he said. “What do you want to bet?”

  “No bets.”

  “Oh, right, gambling is one of the seven deadly sins, along with video games and throwing crushed ice in the bleachers at football games.”

  “Have you got anything better to do Friday?”

  “Well, my brother Eric and his girlfriend are coming home from college tonight to put some final touches on the royal wedding next month. We’re stuck having Thanksgiving dinner with Eric’s future in-laws, who are vegetarians. They only eat things that come from the fleshy underbelly of jungle plants. Then Saturday I’m getting fitted for a tux. So, I’ll need a few thrills this weekend. I’ll meet you at the hospital Friday at seven.”

  “Do you realize, Adam, that this holiday weekend you’ll be having your first tofu turkey and also going to your first bone scan? I’m guessing no one at Dwight D. Eisenhower High School can beat that for variety.”

  On Friday, Mama signed me in at the hospital and nervously folded and refolded my admission papers. “Mama, with Christmas coming, it’s really busy at the church. Why don’t you go on in to work. I’ll be fine here.”

  “No, no, I don’t want you to be alone.” She wouldn’t sit down; it was as if sitting meant accepting the hospitality of the enemy.

  “Adam’s here, Mama.” He was waiting in the lounge, his nose in an Esquire.

  “Oh, well then.… Now, you call me, baby, if you need anything. I don’t like hospitals, you know, not a bit. But Brother James says not to make a fuss. Morning, Adam.”

  Adam snapped the magazine out of Mama’s vision; he must have been on a particularly awful page. “Good morning, Mrs. Pelham.” His face was still wrinkled from sleep. “Would you believe I’ve only been up twenty-two minutes?”

  “It was nice of you to come,” Mama said, as she kissed me good-bye and then she was gone.

  Adam fought an enormous yawn, which made his face look like a balloon blowing up. “What’s that?”

  I rattled the puzzle box, but kept the picture out of sight. Finally, they called my name, and people all over the waiting room turned to look at me. It seems I’d become quite a celebrity, though, heaven knows, I hadn’t asked for it.

  “You’ll be charging for autographs next,” Adam said.

  A clerk snapped a plastic name bracelet onto my wrist and pointed the way to the lab. Adam grabbed my wrist. “Okay, let’s see if you can get it right.”

  “Pelham, Miriam Berkeley, type O +.” I’d looked at a bracelet just like this one hundreds of times when I’d been in the hospital before, as if it could give me clues to why all this was happening to me.

  “What kind of a middle name is Berkeley?”

  “My father’s. Pelham is my mother’s family.”

  Adam read while I had the lab work-up. I peeked out the door of the bathroom and waited until he was absorbed in the magazine before I tiptoed out with my urine sample. I would have died of embarrassment if he’d seen it.

  They took me into a little room and laid me on a table for the dye injection. The room smelled of refrigerated air. As the needle pricked my skin, I felt a revulsion as if I were being forced to eat raw meat. After the initial rush of heat, then cold, they said I wouldn’t feel anything, but I sensed the dye spreading through me like snake venom. What came to mind was the life-size diagram in the biology lab at school of the miraculous circulatory system, with all the major and minor and hair-thin blood vessels. In place of crimson blood, I saw purple dye jetting into every blood vessel, polluting God’s perfect universe of the human body.

  After a while, they let me stand up, and then led me back to the lounge. I wore one of their stiff green cotton wraparounds that crinkled whenever I moved. I said nothing to Adam about my anger and revulsion. I smiled like a brave little camper. We staked out a corner of the bone scan waiting room. I’d hidden the puzzle under a chair, and now I pulled it out and turned the picture toward Adam.

  “Hey, that’s Vincent van Gogh.”

  I’d picked out the puzzle at K Mart not because he was a great painter, but because I liked the haunte
d face, the ripples of smoke from the pipe, the rough fabric of the coat, even the blood-red background. He struck me as a man who was forced to do something he didn’t want to do.

  “Yeah, that’s the looney tune who cut off his ear. Look at the bandage around it. There’s no ear under there.”

  “I thought that was just a scarf that was keeping his ears warm.”

  “Ear,” Adam said. “That’s the point. The other one’s a goner. He sliced it off.”

  “Oh, that’s sick!”

  “And guess what he did with the hunk of ear,” Adam said, relishing this whole perverse story. “He wrapped it up and gave it to a whore. Oops, what’s a decent word you can relate to?”

  “A prostitute? A harlot?”

  “Yeah, a harlot. I don’t know why he gave her the ear. Maybe he was short of cash, and they didn’t take Visa in those days.”

  “Oh, Adam, that’s crass.” I couldn’t believe I was a party to this whole rude exchange. Adam was infectious, like laughter.

  We put the puzzle together quickly. It was Adam’s style to start from the outside and work in, but I was drawn to the stark blue eye at the center of the puzzle. I began with the eye and built the face around it. We met at the pipe and worked up the brown stalk of it that led to the artist’s lips.

  “What would make a sane man cut off his ear?” Adam wondered.

  “Maybe he wasn’t sane.”

  “What did the harlot say when she opened the box?” asked Adam. “Give up? EARrational! Highly EAR-regular!”

  “EAR-resistible!” I quipped. Me? Making jokes? Puns?

  Adam pulled back my hair. To make sure I had both my ears, he said. What a weak excuse. A shiver ran down my back when he touched me. With his hands behind my neck, he pressed his lips to mine. I’d never held my breath so long, but as soon as he began to pull his lips away, I shamelessly inched toward him for more.

  Then they came to get me. Adam was nervous as they led me away. I don’t think he was worried about me as much as he was afraid to be in a place like a hospital, all alone. He called after me, “Don’t do anything EAR-regular.”