Song of the Shaman (10 page)

“Wait! Is this a story about when you were little?”

“It’s about when I went to summer
ca—”

“You told me that one already. I want to hear a story when you were an
Indian
girl.”

Sheri glanced at him. He was watching her, waiting for some grand recollection to leap from her mouth. “Don’t confuse my story with yours, Zig. You’re the Indian, not me.”

He sat up on his elbows and jutted out his chin. “You’re wrong. I came from you so you’re an Indian, too.”

Her patience was running thin. She’d had enough confrontations for one day.

“I’m not like you, babe. I don’t remember any stories
from—”

“Yes you do!” he yelled. “Anyways, you’re a
“creative”
director. Make it up!”

There was no mistaking his sarcasm. Sheri threw his sweater aside.

“Just who do you think you’re talking to? You better watch your mouth or you can forget about a story tonight.” Her nerves were fraying fast. Zig lowered his eyes and dropped back on his pillow.

“Sorry, Mom.” He pulled at the strips in his hand. “Could you tell me a story…please?”

She didn’t want to think anymore. Her head hurt like hell. But a promise is a promise, and bedtime stories would be a good way to renew their bond. Sheri looked around the room for ideas.

“Once upon a time there was an Indian girl
who—”

“What was her name?” he interrupted her again.

“Right, she needs a name. It wasssss…”

She moved Zig’s costume off the top of her latest issue of
Vogue
. Tina Turner,
Sexy over 60,
was on the cover.

“Tina!”

“I don’t like Tina—reminds me of bad-breath Christina in 5B. She’s always flipping her hair around like this.” He held the strips on top of his head and flicked them away from his face with his other hand, batting his eyes at the ceiling.

Sheri laughed and her body slowly began to unwind.

“Okay. How about…Ti-ma. Is that better?”

He paused. “Tima is a nickname. What’s it short for?”

“It’s not a nickname.”

“Yes it is!”
he argued. “It’s only part of a name—like Tina and Christina.”

Sheri’s mind went blank.

Zig answered. “Tima is short for Tukitima
.”

When he spoke the name she liked it right away. It had an exotic, almost magical ring that sounded familiar, but from where? He curled his lips into a smug smile, the little know-it-all.

“Once upon a time there was a girl named Tukitima…”

Zig wriggled under the covers, at last content with the story’s beginning. Based on the collage of magazine clippings he had tacked to the corkboard by his desk and taped all over the wall behind his bed, Sheri weaved a tale of an Indian girl’s life in her village. There were photos of rain forests and waterfalls, rustic Indian dwellings, an assortment of pottery, tools, and weapons; portraits of families and boys and girls from different nations. Tired as she was, Sheri surprised herself at the ease in which she conjured up the story; the more she imagined, the faster and easier the story came. Or had she heard it somewhere before?

“Tima’s parents had died. Her grandfather raised her.”

“
Great
-grandfather. He was
really
old.”

“Well, she just called him Grandfather. He was short and feisty but also very kind and he let her roam in the forest. Tima didn’t go to school—her grandfather taught her everything, as if she were a grandson instead of a granddaughter.”

“Stuff like how to hunt tapirs and jaguars. She learned how to make hammocks from vines and cord bags, and bows and arrows from pejibaye wood. But there were other things he taught her, too…right?” Zig added. He fought a yawn; his eyelids grew heavy. The length of the day suddenly weighed upon Sheri, too. Her focus started to drift.

“Yeah, Tukitima was a tough little girl. One day she went into the rain forest alone and…and…something terrible happened…”

“What happened to her?” His glassy eyes shot open.

“That’s the end of chapter one—we’ll find out what fate awaits Tima in chapter two.”

“Well, okay.” He hugged his pillow and pulled the covers up over his shoulders. “Now you have all day to think about chapter two since you don’t have to go to work.”

She had happily forgotten her situation for the past hour or so. The bleak reminder came back to her.

“Right, I’ve got all the time in the world.”

He fell asleep before she sewed on the final ragged piece of cloth. She held up the woolly costume to see if she missed any spots. The colorful shreds fringed the edges of the vest and bunched like a tail in the middle of the back. How symmetrical and striking the effect was. Zig lay sleeping with a couple of strips still clutched in his fist. Sheri gently opened his hand and slipped them out. She kissed his ear, breathing in his sweet, soft innocence mingled with the faint vinegary smell of stubbornness. He moaned and rolled to his side. She hung his costume on the clothes tree near his bed, stood up, and turned off the light. Amazingly, her headache had disappeared without the assistance of the codeine painkillers she had leftover from a root canal. She undressed, fell into bed and into a deep sleep.

THE EMERALD RIVER WATER GLEAMED; viscous ripples tingled between her toes, wrapped themselves around her ankles. Her foot splayed and distorted in the water, changing to prismlike shapes. She was certain they were there again, circling round and round, above her head. She kept her eyes on her feet and the shapes, fearing what she would see if she looked up. With every pore she fought the beautiful silken strands of the birds’ call, fought the urge to lift her face…

In the middle of the night Zig’s footsteps hurrying down the hall awakened her.

“What’s the matter, Z?” She sat up quickly, swung her legs over the side of her bed.

“I’m wheezing.”

Shoulders high and chin tucked in, he labored to catch his breath. She pressed her ear to his chest. The tight, squeaky noise was not unlike the sound she made as a kid, blowing into empty boxes of Mike and Ike candy or Red Hots. In her night table drawer was an extra inhaler—one of several she had in almost every room in the apartment. She turned on the lamp and took out the small plastic pipe that housed an aerosol cylinder, removed the cap on the mouthpiece, and shook the tube vigorously. She gave it to Zig. He put it in his mouth and pumped out two puffs of mist.

“Hold it in for as long as you can…one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…”

At eight Zig exhaled, pushing all the air out of his lungs. Sheri watched closely for the result.
What could have triggered it this time? Was he catching a cold?
She touched his forehead—no fever. Maybe she should put him on the nebulizer. She listened to his chest again. A weak whistle eked through his pajama shirt.

“How do you feel?” She searched his face in the semidarkness.

“I’m okay now.”

He gave her the inhaler and she pushed the cap on. She placed it back in the drawer, next to vials of Albuterol, foil packages of Pulmicort, and an empty prescription bottle of Prednisone. Albuterol is taken every three to four hours, Pulmicort twice a day, both in the nebulizer.
Take three Prednisone tablets by mouth in the morning and three in the evening for three days.
The dosages were engraved in her mind after last fall’s harrowing ordeal. Zig had to be admitted to the hospital for four days to get his breathing under control. She spent sleepless nights next to him in a hard hospital cot. He was on steroid medications through January and missed two weeks of school. Worst of all, it came smack in the middle of her working on a grueling new business pitch. She vowed never to let that happen again.

“Why don’t you stay here with me, Zig—just in case?” She would lie half awake the rest of the night anyway, listening for his footsteps.

“I’m all right, Mom. I’ll sleep in my bed.”

Sheri stumbled back to his room, tucked him in, and sat on his bed, watching the rhythm of his chest rise and fall. Should she call Dr. Breen? That would mean enduring his depressing stats: how much gunk was in the air, how many asthmatic kids he currently had in the hospital, how many more would be admitted before the end of the season. Then he would immediately start him on the meds again. Zig hated taking that stuff; he said it made him feel spacey and light-headed for months. She moved to his beanbag chair and rested her feet on the bottom of his bed, covering her legs with his dragon print bathrobe. The room seemed a bit chilly, but she was too exhausted to get up and change the thermostat. She wouldn’t leave his side, not even with the slightest wheeze. She stayed until she heard birds twittering and the swell of traffic in the plaza circle.
Birds circling round and round, above her head…
Zig’s breathing was regular, no sign of distress. She got up to make breakfast.

1899

Panama City, Panama

LOUISE WATCHED UNTIL ROSA was out of sight. Wind whipped through the brick-paved streets and along the plaster facades; hanging flowerpots creaked in neighboring balconies, and fragments of branches skipped into doorways. Louise pressed hard against the door, which slammed shut with such a force that Benjamin came rushing in.

“Is everything all right?” His eyes darted around the room.

“Yes, everything’s fine.” She turned away from the door, not knowing what to do with her hands. “I was concerned about Rosa and sent her home to her family. How’s Maud?”

“The humidity is too much for her. I gave her a tonic to quiet the cough. She’s resting now.”

An awkward silence stood between them.

“I’m afraid supper will be up to us this evening. Rosa made
sancocho
. I’ll see what else is in the pantry.”

“I’m not hungry.” His arms were motionless at his side. He looked taller and broader. His cotton shirt was loose; its sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The lace curtains stirred. Mother’s figurines in the curio cabinet held their patient poses. She tried to smile, though she could not breathe. Benjamin looked at the floor.

“I can help you set the table. For later.”

“Yes! Thank you.” Heart pounding, she hurried over to the china closet, glad to be moving. “The dishes are right here.”

His nearness was exhilarating. When she opened the china closet and reached inside the storm clouds finally relieved themselves. A deluge of water pelted the clay tile roof, followed by piercing cracks of thunder.

“Rosa!”
Maud cried out in fear.

“I’m coming, Maud!” Jolted from her enchantment, Louise left Benjamin standing in the dining room and headed up the steps. She soon froze at the staircase window. A strong surge had thrown over the garden furniture, which began to tumble about.

“The chairs and table!” Louise yelled.

“I’ll put them in the shed.” Before she could protest Benjamin was out on the terrace. Louise raced up the long flight of stairs to see Maud crouching at the window. She wrapped her nightgown around her; the silk dinner dress lay discarded on the floor by the bed.

“Maud, come away from there!”

Maud gasped and pointed out her window. While battling the violent wind with the garden table in tow, a tree limb hurled from the sky, striking Benjamin on the head. He let go of the table and fell to the ground. The iron chairs danced dangerously close to him. Louise ran downstairs as if in a dream. The French doors were flung open; Benjamin lay wet and still. She rushed to his side in spite of the turbulence. Blood flowed from a gash on his forehead. The table had landed on him, pinning his leg to the ground. She began to push the table when he stirred.

“Louise!”

Benjamin struggled to free himself. Louise pushed with all her might until the table finally dislodged, tumbling away in the wind like a wild animal. Twigs and palm fronds scratched their faces; they crawled on hands and knees to the doorway. Benjamin inched inside first and then reached back to help Louise. Behind her a chair hurled toward the door.

“Give me your hand!”

Benjamin’s powerful fingers dug into her forearm as he hauled her in. With a loud crack the chair lodged itself in the wooden moldings around the doorway. Benjamin shoved his back hard against the garden door and shut out the vicious torrent. His chest heaved; his trousers were drenched and ripped at the knee. She noticed another gash on the back of his hand. Panting, Louise slowly sat up on the floor. For a long moment they stared at each other, unable to speak.

“You’re bleeding,” Louise said, breaking the silence. She went to him trembling, the hem of her wet dress smearing spots of blood on the floor. Taking his stiff fingers in hers she examined the wound.

“Louise, where are you? Where’s Benjamin?”

Maud’s frightened voice pealed over the banister. Louise glimpsed her barefoot sister creeping down the steps, coughing along the way. She let Benjamin’s hand drop and quickly stepped aside.

“I’m here, Maud. We’re both safe,” she called out. “Don’t come down—it’s wet and slippery! And stay away from the windows! Anything could break through!”

“But I can get the mop and…”

“Maud, stay in your room!” Louise warned. “I’ll be right there!” Her sister did as she was told and hurried back upstairs.

“We need something to stop the bleeding.”

She hurried to the kitchen and rifled through the cupboard drawers. She snatched up the dishcloth she’d taken from Rosa earlier. Benjamin followed her and sat on the housekeeper’s stool with his wounded hand between his knees; his other hand was cupped underneath to catch the steady trickle of blood. Blood from the slash on his brow ran over his eyelid and cheek. Shocked at his ghastly sight, she immediately pressed the cloth to his knuckles and wrapped them tight. Though she was still stunned from the chaos in the garden, the sensation of manipulating his hand, her fingers in contact with his, sent a thrill through her body. He watched her as she bandaged him. She could feel her wet shift clinging to her skin, her tangled hair pasted to her neck.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice calm and intimate. “I’m not sure what happened…”

“You took a nasty fall when a branch struck you.” She was surprised at her own composed tone. Outside, the wind screamed like a lost child. Louise combed the drawer for another cloth to blot his oozing forehead.

“Storms like this are very dangerous. You put yourself at risk for me.” His amber eyes caressed her face. Her insides vaulted.

“Fortunately the gash is not too deep.” Afraid to return his gaze, she touched his cheek instead, tilting his head so the wound would catch the failing light. “Besides, you pulled me out of the way of that chair, too.” Louise studied the jagged cut; flecks of dirt were lodged in the swollen flesh. It needed to be cleaned. But wait—she had forgotten to wash his hand! It could become infected! She dropped the cloth and untied his hand.

“We have to wash your wounds first before dressing them.” Louise led him over to the kitchen sink; the feel of his hand excited her again. She turned the cold brass knob on the faucet. Water thundered out the pipe, rushing like her pulse. When she rinsed his knuckles over the enamel sink Benjamin slipped his fingers between hers. He pressed his palm to her palm. Her knees weakened; heat rose to her face. Their hands blurred under the running water until she could not distinguish one from the other.

“Last night I dreamt about you.”

His whisper melted her. She turned and met his lips. The kitchen became a kaleidoscope, a spinning palette of metal bowls, spoons, and kettles colliding with each other. Inanimate objects seemed to bear witness to her desire: a bowl of papaya gasped on the sideboard. The polished wall clock clanged in protest. The bloodstained rag ogled her from the edge of the sink. His kiss tasted of the wind and rain, the pounding drum, of the soaring quetzal painting the sky with iridescent wings, of freedom.

Someone called her name. Far away she heard it once, then again. People and places slipped back into her mind. It was Maud. Their hands were still joined under the running faucet. Awakening from his kiss, Louise turned off the water. Neither one wanted to move.

“Louise, where are you? You said you were coming! Louise! My lamp won’t light!”

The power had failed. Though it was late afternoon storm clouds darkened the room as if it were evening. There was barely enough daylight left to find the oil lamps.

“I’m coming, Maud!”

Her voice sounded stark and shaky—did it betray her kiss with the young shaman? In the semidarkness Louise and Benjamin groped the kitchen shelves for the squat glass of the oil lamps. Louise found one next to a box of matches.

“Here it is!” She slid it off the edge of the shelf. Benjamin moved closer, turning the little knob to lengthen the wick. He struck a match and lit the lamp. The flame grew long, illuminating the dado on the walls and making his eyes glow. The split skin above his thick brow was red and puffy. He moved closer still until she felt his lips on her neck. Again she sunk deep into an intoxicated state; Maud’s panicked voice sifted through the air.

“Where’s Rosa? She’s not in her room! Louise!”