Song of the Shaman (11 page)

2006

Brooklyn, New York

THE WEEKEND WAS DEVOTED to throwing out hoards of Aeon paperwork she had brought home over the years, purging herself with every print ad, TV storyboard, and presentation folder she’d stuffed into neon blue garbage bags. Disillusion had grown into an emotional tumor; discarding her lifework made her feel like a cancer patient on chemo, losing all her hair, exposing her naked pain to the world. Things had to get worse before they got better.

Zig helped her haul everything down to the recycle bin in the basement, glad to make space in the living room closet for his precious stick collection. He’d put the finishing touches on his costume Sunday night and selected an ulu stick to bring to school. Excelsior Prep allowed children to wear their costumes all day as long as they weren’t too scary or hindering in the classroom. On Halloween morning she played his valet, assisting with the tying on of his impressive headdress. He was very particular about how and where the feathers should fall. Then he carefully put the vest over a T-shirt, adjusted the dangling colored fringes so they hung straight, and placed his feather pouch strap over his shoulder. After insisting on wearing moccasins he ceremoniously picked up his stick, and the transformation was complete. For a moment, watching him admire his reflection in the hall mirror, smiling broadly, as if he had just created a masterpiece, she wondered if she was wrong. The way he constructed his outfit, his exact specifications, and the startling result—it was too detailed for a child’s creation. It made her think twice about what he had been claiming for years.
Maybe his was not all a fantasy.

Zig didn’t talk on the way down in the elevator. He held on to his pouch and his stick while Sheri lugged his school backpack. The morning was unusually warm for Halloween, and he was glad not to wear a jacket so he could show off his creation. Passing through the lobby, Sheri saw another mother and her two costumed children leaving for school. A tiny girl waved a silver sparkly wand like Tinker Bell. She followed her big brother, who swung a black vampire cape about him; plastic fangs hung out of his mouth and fake blood dripped down his chin.

“Look, Ma—an Indian!” the boy exclaimed as Zig walked by. Even Juan got up from his desk.

“Indian? That’s a
shaman
! In my country, when we see a guy coming like that—with feathers and bells and a big stick—everybody move!”

Zig held his head high. Sheri caught the reactions from people on the street. Some commented; some only stared and smiled. Tapping his stick on the ground, Zig strutted along, humming to himself. He wasn’t looking around to see who was looking at him. On Plaza Street they passed a group of do-ragged teenagers chomping on candy and dropping wrappers in their wake. They gurgled when they saw Zig; some cupped their hands over their mouths to mimic a call:

“Wooo wooo wooo wooo wooo….”

At the Grand Army Plaza subway station the neighborhood panhandler was parked at the bottom of the steps—a cheerful guy who wore a black eye patch and had the nonstop chatter of a used-car auctioneer.

“Whoa! Don’t tell me, don’t tell me—you must be Injun Joe or Sitting Bull or—no, I got it—White Cloud! I know there was a Red Cloud, but you look like White Cloud to me!”

Zig slowed down to scope out the man, as if he too were wearing a costume. The man turned to Sheri.

“Can you help me out with somethin’?”

Sheri picked some loose change out of her pocket and dropped it into his dirty paper cup.

“Bless you, Miss! Happy Halloween!” To Zig he added, “You be good now! Don’t jab nobody with that Injun stick!”

The No. 2 train came quickly. Sheri and Zig stood in the middle of the car holding on to a pole. She could count on one hand the times she had ever taken the subway with him to school. An elderly woman sitting in front of them tapped Zig on the arm.

“Did you make that costume, young man?”

“Yes. My mom helped, too.”

“Homemade costumes are the best. I was just admiring your headdress. What Indian nation are you supposed to be?”

Zig looked thoughtfully up at the straphangers. “I’m not sure exactly. I know I’m not from here. It’s too cold.”

“Maybe from Florida then, like the Seminoles?

He shook his head definitively. “No, I mean, not from this country.”

“Oh!” The woman smiled at Sheri. “Well, it’s a very unique costume. Enjoy your Halloween!” She hobbled off at Atlantic Avenue.

Zig muttered under his breath. “It’s not a costume.”

They got off at Borough Hall and walked to the front gate of Excelsior. Downtown was in full swing with people pouring out of the subway. It was interesting to note the brand of professionals in Brooklyn—lawyers and middle managers, teachers, shop owners and city workers. Brooklyn’s energy was different. The people seemed weary from the start, not as crisply pressed and dry-cleaned; the suits were last year’s cut; the shoes unpolished and not as trendy. Yet they seemed more authentic to her now that she was a mere observer of the plight to the office. Men and women with a purpose whizzed by, pressing buttons on their cell phones, sorting through voice mail, e-mail, and text messages, deleting, saving, deleting. Suddenly she felt estranged, thrown out of the club. Pangs of despair gripped her as she held her son’s hand and led him to school. She couldn’t help feeling lost in the homemaker role. This morning she had pulled on the same sweater and jeans she wore yesterday, but when she got to school she fell in with very few of the mothers dropping off their kids. One woman dressed in a pin-striped suit rushed off, kissing the air, leaving her twins on the sidewalk by the school. Another in running clothes pried herself away from her daughter’s clutches. Some carried yoga mats and skipped off for their morning class. There were fathers too, a limited variety but more than she expected : the amiable and aimless L.L. Bean men in khakis and polo shirts. Skinny-jeaned Dumbo gallery guys. And the any-business businessmen—clean-shaven, pepper-haired, faceless. Sheri searched the drop-off scene for someone like her, another jobless single mom, terrified and defiant. A group of three women stood off to the side. They looked ancient, more like grandparents; no doubt the ones whose clocks ran out and either adopted or spent a fortune for an egg donor, bravely giving birth on the brink of fifty. Haggard yet happy, they got their gift late in life, these women who reminded her so much of her mother. She felt more kinship with them than with anyone else.

Across the lobby a stoop-shouldered man had been watching them since they came in. He finally walked over, grinning with enthusiasm.

“Awesome costume, Zig!”

“Hi, Bruce. Thanks.”

“Did you make it yourself?”

“My mom helped a little.”

“Just a little.” Sheri crossed her arms.

“I’m Bruce Schumer.” The man extended his hand. “I left a phone message for you on Friday regarding Zig’s evaluation.”

“Right! You’re the psychologist! Sheri Lambert.” She shook his hand; the call had completely slipped her mind during those last dark hours at Aeon. “Sorry—Friday was insane. I meant to give you a call.”

Just then, three boys raced over to greet Zig. The stocky blond boy wore a cardboard placard painted with an elaborate silver design suggesting body armor. He had a matching cardboard helmet with a plume stuck on the top and detailed silver-painted shin plates over black boots. Another taller boy wore open-toed leather sandals revealing long stringy toes. He held a corner of his flowing Middle Eastern robe and glanced up at Sheri beneath a towering turban of gauze. A third, brown-skinned boy wore a long apron spotted with black oily stains; black smudges were on his cheeks and chin, and he carried an old wooden mallet.

“Hey, Zig! Cool headdress!”

“Hey, Daniel. Your helmet’s cool too. Did you make it?” Zig peeked at the back of his friend’s head.

“It took me all weekend.”

“What’s up, Jacob! Hey, Kwami!”

The four boys created quite a contrast to the commercial superhero and princess costumes that filled the lobby.

“That’s interesting…Sheri, do you know these boys?” Bruce asked, leaning into her ear. Sheri shook her head.

“They were all part of that incident last week.” He paused to look at her, to see if she understood. “They’re dressed as the characters they saw themselves as when they were playing that game.”

Bruce and Sheri gazed at the boys in silence. They were like actors cast in a play of their own lives, glimpsing their history, each one a snapshot of the past that Zig had identified as theirs. They weren’t at all scared. She thought they would be after witnessing Francesca’s horror. Instead, they seemed energized, empowered. Was their silence that day out of fear or solidarity? There was no goofing around, no jokes thrown about. Nothing but a small sense of belonging, and a certain deference to Zig, who introduced them to this underground game.

“Looks like that afternoon is still playing itself out,” Sheri said, nervously adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “Zig has a good imagination…he takes after me that way.”

“Really? What do you do?”

She flinched. She hadn’t prepared an answer for that question just yet.

“I’m going up, Mom.” Zig turned to wave good-bye.

“Okay, sweetie.” Sheri hugged him, careful not to disturb his headdress. “Meet you at three.”

Children piled into the elevators; a Mardi Gras display of squished costumes and masked faces disappeared behind brass-plated doors. Minutes later there was scarcely a parent or child in sight. The psychologist stood by her side.

“So what line of work are you in?”

“I’m an artist.” The words fell out of her mouth without a thought to their absurd meaning. Why did she say that? Flustered, she quickly changed the subject. “How did the evaluation go?”

“Very well! Jackie got the report on Friday. We’ll go over it today.” He looked down at his feet. “Sheri, do you have a minute? There’s something I’d like to show you.”

Sheri started for her BlackBerry out of habit and corrected herself. She zipped her bag shut.

“Sure, I’ve got time.”

They crossed the empty lobby and stepped into the elevator. Frank, the elevator operator, nodded at Bruce.

“Hey, Frank! Good weekend?”

“Eh, if you like raking leaves. Second floor?”

“Second floor.”

The man pulled a lever to close the heavy brass doors. Bruce turned to Sheri.

“I had a fascinating conversation with your son last week.”

“Really? I couldn’t get Zig to say much about it.” Sheri readied herself for what might follow. He had his hands clasped behind his back and a thoughtful look on his face. The elevator door opened.

“Thanks, buddy.” Bruce stepped aside to let Sheri off and continued, “Zig came to see me right after your meeting with Jackie. I had some of Jackie’s notes to go on when I talked to him about what happened.”

At his office door Bruce pulled out a wad of keys and selected one to unlock it. The narrow room smelled stuffy but not unpleasantly so. Papers were in neat piles on his desk, and rays of morning light brightened his sole window. She got the impression he burrowed himself as much as possible in this cubbyhole, away from the school staff and bureaucracy.

“Please sit anywhere you like.” He threw his satchel on the sofa, opened a file drawer, took out an old black cassette player, and placed it on his desk. Sheri sat down on the edge of a chair nearest him.

“I was expecting to hear the usual playground complaints—somebody threw something at somebody, name-calling, fighting, yada yada yada. Instead, I discovered that Zig led his friends in a relatively innocent but complex game of what he called ‘real pretend.’ ‘Real pretend,’ as I see it, was a kind of guided meditation or hypnosis.”

“Guided meditation?” Sheri repeated, pondering the words. Psychologists were a curious bunch, employing a mishmash of ancient belief systems and modern science to arrive at a good guess. “Zig described the game when we met with Jackie.”

“Right, you heard the whole story. However, what was amazing to me was when he spoke about his own
character—”

“The Indian.”

“Yes…has he mentioned this before? That he remembers a past life as an Indian?”

“Zig’s been telling me this story on and off since he was five. It started right after 9/11. All of a sudden he was like a walking encyclopedia, rambling nonstop with facts and anecdotes about his native upbringing. Frankly, I’ve been concerned. Have you ever come across anything like this?” There. She had admitted it. He was a psychologist—maybe he would have some answers.

Bruce rubbed his hands together. “Kids will have great emotional responses when they’re exposed to scary news and violence. They can do things like attach themselves to strong hero types in a movie or book or even a video game, idolizing these characters as a way to escape reality. ” He looked off to the side for a moment. “But I don’t feel that’s the case with Zig.”

The old wood-framed window rattled in the wind. Sheri folded her arms, trying to read the psychologist’s face.
What if he says Zig needs extra medical attention? Hints at some psychosomatic disorder and recommends prescription drugs to control him?
Nowadays doctors prescribe Ritalin as the childhood cure-all. She knew of two boys in her building who were on ADHD drugs. Maybe they were out of control before, but now to her they walked around as if they were looking at the world through one small keyhole in their mind.

“When I was in grad school I did some ethnographic research on the Guaymí, a group of native people in Costa Rica. I lived with a Guaymí family for almost a month, studying all aspects of their daily lives. It was a tremendous experience, but the thing I remember the most was their music.” He fingered the handle of the tape deck. “They sang often and had a song for every task, each one with different tonal qualities that told stories or reflected their beliefs. When I asked Zig if he was doing anything specific when he saw himself as an Indian, he said he was singing by a fire alone late at night while everyone else was asleep. I asked if he remembered the song, and he said yes. I then asked if I could record him singing it. He agreed.” Bruce looked at the tape recorder. “I’d like to play it for you.”