Song of the Shaman (14 page)

He was quiet. She could hear him thinking.

He opened the door.

1899

Panama City, Panama

Last night I dreamt about you.

Louise filled the kettle with water and lit the stove. Then she fixed a tray of food for Maud: a bowl of Rosa’s soup, freshly baked bread, a generous slice of papaya. She poured boiling water into a cup for Benjamin’s tea. She didn’t remember carrying the tray or the walk to Maud’s bedroom. Her sister’s familiar giggle trickled down the hall. When Louise reached the door Benjamin was standing at Maud’s side, massaging her cheeks and temples. On the windowsill was a small mound of crushed leaves on a piece of paper. The paper rustled under a slight draft.

“This will release the pressure in your passages,” Benjamin explained. “How do you feel now?”

“Much better! A moment ago my nose was completely stuffed!” Maud’s eyebrows shot up at Louise. “Why didn’t you bandage his hand? It’s dreadful!”

Indeed, Louise had forgotten all about his hand. Blood caked in the slit and glistened bright red with his movements.

“It is nothing to be concerned about.” Benjamin concentrated his attention on Maud.

“Well, I…between you and Benjamin I wasn’t sure who needed attention most.” Louise lowered the tray on her sister’s lap. A gale shook the window, making the herbs inch to the sill’s edge.

“I brought your favorite, Maud—Rosa’s soup, bread, a slice of papaya, and hot
tea
.”

Benjamin looked at the window. The herbs twittered, about to fall. Both he and Louise lunged to catch the drifting paper. Benjamin rescued it; a smattering of the herbs floated to the floor. Maud gripped her sliding dinner tray.

“My! I’ve never seen you move so fast, Louise.” Maud said, with a look of amazement. “That must be some very fine tea.”

Rain hammered the rooftop and Maud ate heartily, chattering away with stories of childhood injuries and past perilous storms. Louise sat on the edge of the bed, half listening to her idle conversation. Why wasn’t he in a hurry, as she was? Louise crossed and uncrossed her ankles. Would he steal a glance at her? No, not in front of Maud. She barely joined the conversation; the memory of his kiss swept over her minute by minute. The teacup remained on the tray, waiting to be drunk. Would she ever stop talking? Maud’s empty bowl and plate reminded her that neither she nor Benjamin had eaten since breakfast.

“Have your tea before it gets cold, Maud.” Louise pushed the cup into her sister’s hand and hastily removed the tray. “Watching you eat has made me hungry. I’ll warm some soup for you too, Benjamin.”

She left the room brimming with emotions. Everything around her took on a strange cast. The ceiling medallions disappeared into nothingness. Shadows on the wall stretched like a long black cat. The arched windows framed the storm as if it were an abstract painting. She touched the blurred glass. The idyllic scenes she often drew from this very window were now quite foreboding. A dish shifted on the tray and ended her musing. She went into the kitchen, finding spoons and ladling soup while her thoughts were wrapped in Benjamin’s arms. Maybe she should not have left him alone with Maud—she might flirt with him indefinitely.
He fancies me—ask him!
If Maud knew how they had kissed. What if she didn’t drink the tea? What if she spilled it on the bed? Louise looked at the empty void of the staircase. Suddenly a blaze of lightning flashed in the room. Cracks of thunder boomed, a patriarchal giant shouting at her from angry clouds. She hugged herself. It was just a storm—one of many she had weathered. But this storm swelled within her, throwing her into a sea of uncertainty. She carefully lifted her mother’s delicate blue-and-white china from the closet. Her fingers traced the two birds gleaming on the intricate pattern.
It’s called Willow
…Mother’s hushed voice spoke to her.
There is a story. The birds were once young lovers who were forbidden to be together. They ran away but were found by the maiden’s wealthy father. The father thrust a sword through her lover’s neck. The daughter burned herself to death in mourning
.
Touched by their love, the gods immortalized them as two doves, eternally flying as one in the sky.
Louise placed the bowls on the table and felt Benjamin’s palm on hers again. She put napkins under the silver spoons, imagining his breath on her neck. He was everywhere, numbing her thoughts until she forgot who and where she was.

Last night I dreamt about you…

“Louise.”

Benjamin stood before her. She arose, awkwardly, from her chair at the table.

“How is Maud?”

“She’s asleep.”

The flame weakened in the oil lamp. He slid his hands, warm and strong, along her cheeks and pulled her mouth to his. The smell of herbs, the salty taste of his lips, his fingers on the back of her neck, sent her whirling. He kissed her hard and deep and she thought about the first time she saw him at the riverside in Guabito, how he had stared at her, openly, unabashedly, like no man ever had.

A chair toppled behind them. The lamp went out. In the purple darkness she felt him lift her damp dress, press his knee between her legs. His coarse trousers scratched her thighs. How many nights had she imagined this scene, words she would whisper, where she would touch him. But now she was only shaking, all of her, shaking. They heard a sudden cry. Could it be Maud?! They quickly stopped and listened. A sad wind moaned through a rusty shutter. He took her hand and placed it on his groin. She felt his growth, long, like the rest of him, and intuitively she closed her fist and squeezed. He pulled back. Had she ruined everything? His breath was heavy, his face a black void in the dark. He grabbed her waist and they tumbled onto the old narrow settee. Right there in the parlor, on the faded gold damask, where Mother had read her stories, where she once played hide and seek with Maud, where Rosa sang her lullabies when she couldn’t sleep. Clumsily she fought the buttons on her bodice. Benjamin stripped off his trousers. He fumbled for her with one hand and himself with the other. Then the potent sweet odor of wild lilies overwhelmed her. Giant, white, hypnotic, vulgar. Blooming in the eye of the storm. She opened herself to him but did not wince. Finally, torn from the girl she wanted so desperately to cast aside. There was another flash of lightning. In that instant she saw him hunched over her, lips parted, holding her bent knee. He looks at her, his eyes wet.

2006

Brooklyn, New York

BY THURSDAY SHE HAD HAD ENOUGH of Zig’s temperamental outbursts and was glad when he went back to school. The meds succeeded in curbing his asthma but not his attitude. Keeping to his dosages while juggling meals, dirty dishes, and laundry was insane, harkening back to those dark, sleep-deprived early days of his infancy. The heat hissed and the apartment was hot and she needed to get the humidifier out of storage in the basement. November ushered in another layer of clothes to put on, making the morning routine more chaotic. To top it off, Leatrice called to say she’d taken a new job as a nurse’s aide at a rehabilitation center. Relieved of her conscience, Sheri felt happy for Leatrice yet sorry for herself. Zig barely noticed his babysitter’s absence with his mother at home every day. How would she manage without any help? Disorganization gave her total brain fog; at the office her pencils had been centered neatly at the top of her desk, stapler and tape dispenser on the left, markers and drawing pad on the right. One item out of place would throw her into a fit. Crouched on the floor, she dug his right glove out from under the couch. His scarf was stuffed in his backpack. Hat…where the heck was his hat?

Zig gobbled up a bowl of cornflakes while she searched the apartment, swearing under her breath. Between mulling over her sordid state and finding his math workbook, she barely got him to school on time. After dropping Zig at the school gate she hurried down the block. She had just enough time for coffee before heading to someplace in Tribeca. Starbucks was already packed with the Laptop Nation—folks who rush in to grab their spot and set up office for the entire day. The sight of so many jobless types frantically e-mailing the world made her anxious. There was a Greek coffee shop around the corner, one of a dying breed, the kind with red vinyl–covered stools and Formica faux marble counters. She went in, sat at the counter, ordered coffee and a buttered bagel. She unfolded the flyer the school psychologist had given her. Today a man named Tekamthi would be the last speaker in the Voices of the Elders series
.
She was tense. For some reason she kept picturing a seedy tarot card reader. She had Zig’s tape in her bag. Should she go at all?

A woman who looked familiar entered the restaurant. Petite, with short-cropped hair. Of course. It was the viking’s mother. Daniel was the son’s name…Darn, what was hers? Why was it easy to remember a kid’s name and not the mother’s? She caught Sheri’s eye and immediately came over.

“Hey, Sheri! How are you? How’s Zig?” She had a slight British or Australian accent that Sheri had not noticed at the parade.

“Oh hi! Zig’s just fine, thanks. I’m the one still recovering from Halloween.” Sheri was of no mind to rehash anything that happened over the past couple of days. Her hope of having a cup of coffee in peace vanished. She pinched off a piece of bagel and popped it in her mouth.

“The kids are still buzzing about Zig and those drummers. Daniel and Kwami convinced everyone Zig made them magically appear and disappear!” Daniel’s mother slipped onto the stool next to Sheri. “Black coffee, please,” she said to the harried waitress. “The whole school must know by now. And just between me and you, Gina was totally spooked. The mother chuckled. “But to Daniel, Zig is like his own personal Harry Potter!”

“That’s so funny. Zig couldn’t get into those Harry Potter books.” So the whole school knew. Sheri tried to dissolve the doughy lump in her mouth with a gulp of coffee.

“Oh, but they’re fantastic! I read the first two. Daniel got totally hooked on the magic and wizardry.”

“Zig would like everyone to think he’s some kind of wizard.Things happen that are just such a coincidence.”

“Well, actually I couldn’t help but recall last summer when we saw a huge drumming ceremony at the Shinnecock powwow out on Long Island. It was an awesome experience, particularly for Daniel.” The waitress came back and plunked down a cup of coffee in front of her. “At the end of the ceremony, the lead drummer told everyone how drums call out spirits to aid people—he called it the Sacred Language of Spirit.”

“Really?” Sheri took another sip of coffee. “If I took Zig to a powwow he’d never want to come back to Brooklyn.” She spit out the piece of bagel in a napkin.

“When Zig mentioned the drummer spirits I thought maybe you guys were at that powwow, too.” Daniel’s mom looked at her with bright, porcelain blue eyes. She was fishing for something, some reason behind what happened on Halloween night. Sheri pretended she got a text message. Maybe it would be a good idea to go hear the native elder.

“Actually, I’ve got to run or I’ll be late for a meeting.” She shoved a couple of dollars under her saucer for the tab. Nice talking to you—tell me your name again?”

“Clara.”

“Clara! I’m so bad with names.”

“Maybe the guys can get together for a play date sometime.” Clara reached for her wallet, as if she might pay and walk out with Sheri.

“That’d be great—I’ll call you!” Sheri backed out the door in a hurry. Why was she so paranoid? Any mother would be curious; Clara seemed honest enough. She just wanted to share a story, offer her take on a child as unusual as Zig. Powwow drummers and their Sacred Language of Spirit—that sounded kind of intriguing. But Zig like Harry Potter? How ridiculous.

SHE FACED A ROW of identical three-story buildings near Franklin Street, none of which had any signage. Was this the right address? Sheri checked the building number on the flyer. A young man in suede moccasin boots hurried past her and opened one of the painted front doors. Behind the door was a long, floor-to-ceiling burgundy velvet curtain; a hint of burning sage puffed from its folds out into the street. In front of the curtain was a sea of shoes—a jumble of skinny heels, running sneakers, thick clogs—awaiting the return of their owners. The man removed his boots. Muffled voices came from beyond the velvet wall. This must be the place. Sheri hated being late. She reluctantly took off her shoes and piled them with the others, even though the door was unlocked and there were homeless bottle collectors lingering at the corner. Just then a woman with a doll-like face came up to her. She whispered a welcome and handed Sheri another flyer. The narrow, sunlit room had no furniture. Twenty or more people of various ethnicities dotted the floor, sitting cross-legged on small flat cushions. The ages ranged from early twenties to beyond retirement. She tiptoed between bodies and made her way to the back of the room, where a few people sat on folding chairs. Everyone’s focus was on an old man at the head of the room. Dressed in ordinary jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, he wore only one native article—a breastplate made of bone and leather. Stiff, snowy white hair brushed his shoulders. The man was in the middle of a discussion, his tone calm yet firm. He looked directly at Sheri like an old friend, and in that brief glance he stripped away her doubts.

“We live a life of material longings and mediocrity, trying to find ourselves in things only to end up losing ourselves in them. The lies of the mind have only one purpose: to distract you from the truth of who you are. We are
spiritual
beings having a
human
experience. That is the truth. One day, maybe today, maybe this moment, you will move attention away from destructive thoughts. Then you will sense a deep awareness. You will sense the One within who is watching with you, through you. Just behind your thoughts is the One who observes all, knows all, sees all through you. Will we ever be happy, you ask? Happiness is here”—he pointed to the middle of his chest—“always here. True love and joy pours forth from the depths of our soul, yet we cannot feel it unless we connect with the Creator within.”

The atmosphere was dense with thought. Sheri, too, pondered these words, feeling strangely at ease in this place. A hand went up.

“How can someone not identify with thought and things and still make a meaningful contribution to the world?” The man leaned forward, and she saw it was the guy in the boots who had passed her on the sidewalk.

Without hesitation the elder replied, “If what you want comes from your heart you must honor it, for whatever comes from the heart comes from the Creator. How can you hear the loving voice of your heart?” He paused to take in the audience with dark, steady eyes. “Be willing to stop relying on your thoughts as reality—thoughts of your past failures and successes, thoughts of your future goals. None of that exists. To discover what is real is to discover what is unchanging. That will lead you to make the right choices. All children can do this. Learn from them. Ultimately, it will be the young ones who will lead us from the long wintertime into the new springtime.”

Sheri looked down at her fingers; the strap of her bag was wound tightly around them. She thought about Zig and his game of real pretend. He said he was once an Indian—his lives changed, but he didn’t. What was unchanging? Who was Zig? Who was she? This man’s claims sounded profound, but she couldn’t grasp the meaning. She unwound her fingers and blurted out, “What is unchanging?”

Heads turned to see who posed the question. From their facial expressions Sheri could tell her question was in the minds of many.

“Anything that comes and goes is not real. What you are feeling in your mind and body—headache, hunger, anger, for example—that is just passing through you. Only what stays is real. It has always been here. That is the ultimate reality—awakening to what is always present regardless of your mental state. Turn your attention inward, to the Creator in you. Ask what is preventing you from knowing who you are? The answer will be this: what is true is always at peace and that is what you really are. Peace and love, that is unchanging.”

Grace radiated to the corners of the room. Sheri stared at the still, humble old man. Peace. She was not at peace. A minute passed in silence. Lost in her thoughts, the buzz of more questions being asked brushed softly against her ears.
What is preventing you from knowing who you are?
She stayed awhile longer, then quietly stood up to leave. No one seemed to notice except the young man.

SHE HAD FORGETTEN HER GLOVES, and her knuckles were turning a raw red already. It was too early in November to be this cold. Leaves settled into narrow brown strips and hugged the gutter; last week’s burnished trees were now as plain as street poles, and the bare city streets looked like a vast asphalt stage. Mammoth emotions arose—lonely, disfigured sensations that bulged despite her pressing them down inside, the loss that had no home:
Who am I?

They never talked about it. They believed if they raised her as if she were their own birth daughter everything would be fine. She wanted so much to talk about her adoption; her mother did not. Despite her parents’ silence she remained loyal. But the void was always present; this craving that woke her up in the middle of the night would not let her be. She would do anything to fill that void, the greatest of which was giving birth to Zig. Even that euphoric feeling passed and the emptiness returned. Not knowing her ancestry, her real family, who she was. It was frightening how deep it ran. The only thing that took away her depression was her art. Drawing, painting, was once her sole outlet—it had the power to sweep away her sadness.
What was unchanging…

She walked briskly back to Excelsior. Mrs. Johnston, with the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, gestured to her to go into Jackie’s office. Sheri was a little early for the meeting to review Zig’s evaluation. As she approached the headmistress’s office she overheard Jackie and Bruce inside talking.

“We differ on that point, Bruce. He’s classic ADHD.”

“Jackie, I’m not saying otherwise. My feeling is he could do just as well by seeing a therapist twice
a—”

“Not in light of those recent
rumors—”

Sheri knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Jackie’s voice rang like the bell for the next class. Sheri entered the room, apparently unannounced.

“Sheri! Were you waiting long? Margaret didn’t tell me you were here.” Jackie glared at her phone.

“No, not at all,” Sheri replied, feeling cautious.

“You’ve met Bruce Schumer.”

“Yes, Hi Bruce.”

“Hi, Sheri.” Bruce, bearded and bohemian, looked out of place seated in the stately blue velvet armchair. He stood up tentatively to shake Sheri’s hand, stretching his large clumsy frame.

“I’ll take your coat. Would you like some coffee? Tea?” Jackie offered.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

She hung up Sheri’s coat in a corner closet. Sheri noticed the sofa she sat in last time was now under a window across the room. There was a matching blue velvet chair in its place next to Bruce’s. She sat down in it. He smiled at her briefly, preoccupied, fingering papers on his lap. Jackie strode back and picked up a thin document on her desk.

“As you know, Sheri, Bruce conducted a psychological evaluation of Zig shortly after our meeting last week. We reviewed the report internally, going over the details of what happened, and what we can do to prevent accidents like this from happening in the future.” Jackie glanced periodically from the document to Sheri.

“Academically, Zig is an excellent student. He is well liked by his peers. But there’s another side to him that troubles us.”

Bruce sat forward to explain.

“When I met with Zig we completed a BASC—a Behavioral Assessment System for Children. It’s a series of questions that focus on both his strengths
and
weaknesses. In this way, positive features don’t go unnoticed while potential problem areas are being explored.”

“Ellie as well as the art and gym teachers also filled out Teacher Rating Scales.” Jackie separated a few pages from her document.

“Teacher Rating Scales help us understand his behavior from the point of view of those who have the most interactions with Zig. They offer a well-rounded picture of him,” Bruce remarked, shifting in his seat.

“What if I don’t agree with his teachers’ perceptions?” Sheri tried not to show her mounting agitation. “I know my son better than anyone.”

Bruce, apparently used to this inquiry, hastily added, “That’s where the PRS, or Parent Rating Scales, comes in.” He sifted out a two-page form from the bundle on his lap. “After you complete this you can compare your observations to that of his teachers. Keep in mind that differences between teachers, parents, and psychologists’ reports are common. That doesn’t mean the evaluation is inaccurate”—Bruce pushed up his smeared glasses—“it just reflects real differences in Zig’s behavior in various settings and around a variety of adults.”