Song of the Shaman (16 page)

“You have to finish the story, Mom. You promised.” He pried himself away from her and grabbed his pillow, pressing it hard over his head and ears. Frantic, Sheri tried to wrestle it from him.

“Tell me!”

A second wave of nausea hit her. She ran to the bathroom and spilled her stomach into the toilet. Flushed and feverish, she splashed water on her face, hands trembling. When she lifted her head from the sink, the face reflected in the medicine cabinet mirror was not her own.

The river water moved across the glass, swallowing Sheri’s reflection, drowning her ignorance in its current. Only then was the image clear. Silver flickered and swirled into a daguerreotype of an elder native woman. The yellow moon shone in her eyes. A constellation of beaded light encircled her head; sparkling shells hung from her neck. The woman’s smile stretched across the universe. Sheri stared until dizziness made her shut her eyes. She opened them to see her cold, wet face in the mirror. All was the same again.

1899

Panama City, Panama

AT DAWN THE STRONG GALES had run their course. Trees lay battered and broken. Lost curtains, undergarments, shoes, pottery, and roof shingles were scattered on the grounds. The garden furniture had vanished; only the table remained intact. Louise stood naked and transfixed at the garden window, awakened by a cock’s crow. Slowly the fog cleared from her mind and she faced the spoils of the previous evening. Benjamin slept unclothed on the settee, which was moved three feet from its place near the end table. His smooth tan chest gently rose and fell; his long legs hung off the end of the cushions. The sight of him nude in the sitting room both enthralled and terrified her. Was Maud still asleep? And Rosa…she might walk in at any minute! What about Father? Could he be far away? The untouched soup, bread, and papaya were on the table, stiff and stale in the elegant china. Panic-stricken, she dashed to the powder room clutching yesterday’s soiled dress. A few of mother’s old gowns were still in the closet. Louise threw on a blue and white one and fumbled to fasten the scores of buttons at her waist, recalling how only hours ago she had unbuttoned her dress for him. A glimpse in the mirror brought a rude awakening: her hair was in an alarming state! But beneath the disarray a euphoric reflection shone back at her, a face that glowed.

Now decent, Louise went about in a frenzy to hide the vestiges of the night. She ran back and forth, from table to china cabinet, kitchen sink to pantry, her anxiety heightened by the slightest sounds. Rosa would thoroughly examine the house and Maud’s condition upon her arrival. Louise glanced at the top of the stairs and listened for any stirring. Benjamin woke with a start, as if he sensed her dilemma. His sleepy gaze caught her off guard; the tureen she held slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor, the cold, thick soup splattering everywhere.
Louise held her breath—had the noise awakened her sister, too? Except for the tick of the pendulum in the hall clock, all was silent. Benjamin clothed himself in haste. She knelt to gather the broken pieces of the precious bowl; the last time it was used was years ago, on Father’s birthday. Mother had worn a ruffled blue and white dress that seemed to float about the room. Louise shook splinters from her hem before realizing she was wearing the very same dress. On that night, even though it was Father’s birthday, Mother was the center of attention—beautiful and sensual, her dark eyes sparkling. One of Father’s colleagues had too much wine and had tried to fondle her on the terrace. She remembered seeing Mother casually brush the man’s hand away. Louise looked down at the dress—it fit her perfectly.

“What are you smiling at?” Benjamin whispered. He was helping her toss the broken porcelain into an old flour sack and gave her a long, curious look.

“I was just remembering this dress—it was my mother’s. She wore it at my father’s birthday party years ago,” Louise whispered back.

“She must have been very beautiful. Like you.” Benjamin beamed at her; she had never felt so alive and desirable.

They hid the sack in the back of the pantry, wiped up the spill and moved the settee back to its proper place. Though they worked quickly in silence their eyes spoke volumes whenever they met. Shortly after they restored the room to its former state Maud came scurrying downstairs.

“Is the storm over? Where’s Rosa?”

Maud blushed when she saw Benjamin come out of the kitchen drying his hands on a towel. “I didn’t know you were awake!” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at Louise.

“The storm is gone, Maud. I dropped a bowl and Benjamin was kind enough to help me clean up the spill,” Louise said, hoping to ease the awkwardness. A key turned in the lock on the front door. Maud dashed for the door; Louise followed tentatively, checking her reflection in the foyer mirror. Rosa bustled in. She dropped her pocketbook on the floor and ran to Maud.

“Oh, my little niña!” Her face was red and winded. “How I worried about you last night! God forgive me! Let me look at you.”

Rosa took Maud by the hands and stood back to study her from head to toe. She prodded under her chin for swollen glands. She pressed her ear to Maud’s back to listen for any tight sounds.

“Your chest is quiet, but your face is so drawn. Have you eaten?”

Maud yawned and shook her head. Rosa finally glanced at Louise.

“I was about to look for tea cakes.” Louise rubbed her knuckles. Rosa spotted Benjamin behind her, who was picking up leaves that had blown into the alcove.

“Aye! What happened to your head?” Rosa let go of Maud’s hand and walked over to him. Maud gushed with minute details of his heroic rescue of the garden table and the resulting accident. Rosa hummed and nodded, paying more attention to Maud’s zeal than to the story. Louise observed Rosa’s tightly folded arms, her firmly grounded feet. Though Rosa had a similar rural upbringing, it was obvious she considered herself a class above Benjamin, having been employed by a prominent family for almost twenty years. Benjamin, on the other hand, showed little interest in class and race. Rosa would be shocked to know that Benjamin’s father was a missionary, that he was raised in a fine home in San Jose, that he was more educated than she was. At the conclusion of Maud’s story Benjamin stooped down for Rosa to examine his wound. Louise felt a twinge as she yanked off the bandage.

“You will need a doctor for this.” She poked at the scab with a meaty finger.

“I can take care of it myself, Señora. Louise was kind enough to clean the wound for me.”

“A wonder since it got so dark! Louise took forever to light the oil lamps,” Maud reported eagerly, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Rosa raised an eyebrow and tilted her head at Louise. Color rose to Louise’s cheeks.

“It’s half past nine and we are without breakfast! I’ll brew some café.”

Louise rushed away, but not before she heard Benjamin offering to survey the damage done to the property. Maud put her arms around Rosa, leaning her blond head on the solid woman’s shoulder. Benjamin discussed Maud’s health and how she had improved greatly over the past week. Louise tinkered in the kitchen, stalling, relieved that Benjamin had distracted their housekeeper. She worried about Rosa.
Did she sense a change in Louise? Could she tell that something happened last night?
Louise rejoined them in time to hear Rosa’s charge.

“Now that Maud is well enough you can go back home to your grandfather. A coach comes on Friday.”

“So soon, Rosa?” cried Maud.

Louise could not believe her ears. “But we’re not sure how the storm has affected Maud—you even said she looked drawn! Shouldn’t he stay as a precaution for another few weeks?” The note of desperation in Louise’s voice made Rosa all the more firm.

“Those were your father’s orders. The coach comes at dawn on Friday.”

To her astonishment, Benjamin thanked Rosa, saying his grandfather would be very happy to have him come home. “I’ll pack my belongings and be ready to leave.”

“But that is just four days away! What if she falls ill again?” Louise blurted out.

“Actually, I feel fine! The best in ages!” Maud answered cheerfully with a touch of spite.

Benjamin grinned at Maud, his posture relaxed and easy.

“Yes, you’re strong enough now. Grandfather will be pleased.”

The kettle screamed. Louise went to the stove, her eyes brimming over. How could he leave her now? Rosa entered the kitchen to start breakfast. Louise quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“That dress is very nice on you Louise.” Rosa’s wide back was turned.

Louise touched the flouncing skirt. “It’s one of Mother’s old gowns…”

“I know,” Rosa replied.

AFTER A SOLEMN BREAKFAST Rosa immersed herself in housecleaning. Maud lolled on the settee where Louise and Benjamin had spent the night, flipping through a picture book on rare orchids. Where was Benjamin? Her heart ached. She went up to her bedroom to be alone with her sorrow. The room now had a mundane quality about it. Her bed, unslept in for just one night, felt cold and lonely; the rose-patterned coverlet seemed juvenile. She sat on the edge of the bed but soon became restless. She threw open the window shutters, hoping to see Benjamin in the garden. Some of the broken branches, fronds, and debris from the storm had been cleared, but he was not there. Could he be packing his bags already? She opened her door and went down the hall to the bathroom. She picked the bottle of iodine and gauze off the shelf in the medicine cabinet again. In four days he would leave her, perhaps forever. Louise closed the cabinet and continued on to the guest bedroom. Before she knocked the door opened. Benjamin stood there, undressed to his waist. Quick as lightning, he slipped his arm around her and pulled her to him, closing the door without making a sound. He kissed her eagerly, his lips, his smell, transporting her back to last night. The pain of his near departure disappeared. She wanted nothing more than to allow the weakness in her knees, in her hips. Suddenly she heard Maud’s and Rosa’s footsteps near his door. Louise gasped.

“They won’t come in here,” he whispered, his breath warm on her neck. “Those two will be inseparable for most of the day.”

Their laughter faded past Benjamin’s door into Maud’s room. She could hear Maud’s muffled babble and Rosa knocking around, straightening the room, picking up clothes. Benjamin and Louise clung to one another, listening to every move on the other side of the wall, the threat of discovery heightening their desire. Benjamin pulled back.

“Go now—they won’t hear you. Promise me you’ll come again tonight, after midnight. I’ll undo the lock on the balcony door.”

Louise felt drunk; her lips pleasantly chafed.

“I promise.”

He opened the door as silently as he had closed it. Louise passed undetected, as through a looking glass, from lover back into her common place as daughter and sister.

2006

Brooklyn, New York

CHAPERONING A FIFTH-GRADE school trip is not for the fainthearted. With one other mother and the teacher, Sheri helped corral seventeen wired kids into the Borough Hall subway station, steering them on the narrow sidewalk away from dull-eyed city workers. Crossing the hectic two-way intersection at Adams Street, she made herself a human roadblock in case a kid straggled behind when the light changed. The National Museum of the American Indian was at Bowling Green in Lower Manhattan, just a few stops on the No. 4 train. She stood in the middle of the subway car so she could get a good look at Zig’s classmates. Each kid had such quirky expressions, but what she noticed most was their teeth. New front teeth too large for their mouths, so big their lips never fully closed over them. Some with braces, some stuck with food, some with wide gaps waiting for adult teeth to sprout, black holes that punctuated their giggles with little flying bits of spit. They laughed too loud and belched and scratched their butts. She found it amusing that they were not at all self-conscious, not as much as they would be next year when puberty would steal the elfin sweetness from their faces.

The children were giddy, happy to be out of the classroom, eager for a diversion, even if they had to write a report about it for homework. Zig was holding court with a group of boys and a girl or two. Every so often he glanced at Sheri, mindful of the showdown they had two weeks ago. Since then he seemed to be on his best behavior; at least she didn’t get any more calls from school. She made no motion to take him to a therapist or get the prescribed drugs. As long as he listened to her he’d be okay. She watched the dynamics between Zig and some of his classmates. He was quite popular. They tended to follow him around and repeat the things he said. Although Zig did not seem arrogant, it was clear to her how teachers might be annoyed at his reputation. Kids who are saucy and smart give teachers a hard time. They said he was disrespectful. He said they were bubbleheads who couldn’t teach him anything he didn’t already know. Zig’s questioning, steady brown eyes gave him an air of maturity compared to his gawky counterparts. Herding the crew off at the Bowling Green station, Sheri did a headcount before they left the platform. She was relieved when the museum door closed behind her and the kids were in a contained environment. Everyone craned their neck to take in the stately lobby. She had passed this building many times on her way to someplace else and never noticed the imposing neoclassical sculptures of Indians and soldiers that guarded the entrance. The entrance led to a great hall, ornately festooned with marble columns and gold, rose, and green mosaics. To her right and left were curved staircases, rich Victorian-era details, bronze railings, and more marble. She read that there were several ceremonial areas within the building, and she wondered what kind of rituals took place on those polished stone floors a century ago.

The kids chattered, jostled each other, swung their bag lunches. Ellie got their attention by ringing a small brass bell.

“Okay 5-B, our guide is ready to take us on the exhibit. Food and drinks are
not
allowed in the museum, so as you enter please place your lunch bag in the
blue
bin until lunchtime. Place your coat in the
red
bin!” She spoke so loud corded veins popped out of her skinny neck.
What was with the bell?
Ellie then turned to Sheri and the other mother, dropping her voice a few decibels.

“There has to be one chaperone per ten students—Janis, would you mind going with the first nine and Sheri, you cover the other eight? That should work out just fine.”

“No problem.” Sheri sized up her group, which included Zig and his posse.

“Just FYI, the guides are prickly about chaperones and children staying with their group. The museum will shut down the tour if anyone acts up or strays from the rules.” Ellie tried not to look directly at Sheri, but she got her drift.

There was no talking during the tour unless you raised your hand. Zig’s followers dispersed and formed one straight line down the hall. The guide, called a “cultural interpreter,” introduced herself as Mary and led them to their first exhibit. She was a sturdy young woman with a single long braid trailing down her back. At the entrance to the exhibit she turned to address the class.

“Welcome to the National Museum of the American Indian.
Who stole the TeePee?
is the title of the exhibit you’re about to see. Anyone have any idea what this title means?”

A few hands went up, including Zig’s. The guide picked him.

“It’s about how white men took everything our native ancestors ever had.”

Sheri’s eye twitched. She remembered that night at home, how Zig knew her childhood nightmare, the image of the old woman in the mirror. She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
What else did he know?
Since then neither one of them brought up the story again. The thought of it made her uneasy.

“Well, that’s one way of explaining it,” the guide replied, smiling at Zig. “Anyone else?”

The class followed the guide through a vast collection of photography, fine art, pottery, sculpture, and crafts that depicted various stages of change among the Indian Nations. The pieces were fascinating, the history depressing. Sheri was drawn to a late-nineteenth-century photo of two native men, perhaps brothers. One was dressed in traditional Indian attire—a long tunic and a feathered headdress—while the other wore typical American cowboy boots, hat, and a vest. A holster with a gun and a bullet holder was slung low around his hips. Standing straight and proud, the brother dressed in native clothes radiated an inner peace. The other brother was bent to reach his gun, basking in its newfound power. A smirk curled his lips. Was this an actual portrait? Or were they dressed up and posed for the shot? She looked down and read the caption.
Photographer Unknown.

“Native Americans used art as a way to cope with change on the reservations. Take a look at this painting—can you tell what the artist was trying to say here?”

The class crowded around a large colorful mural. Janis stood post behind her group. Sheri stepped over to her group and counted out seven children. One child was missing—Zig.

While everyone was engrossed in the mural, Sheri’s eyes darted wildly about the room. Zig wasn’t anywhere in sight.
How could he do this to her?
Perhaps he was still in the other exhibit hall, reading the artist notes on the wall. She tapped Janis on the shoulder.

“I think Zig is still in the other room. Would you mind covering my kids for a few minutes while I grab him?” she whispered.

“Not at all—go right ahead,” Janis whispered back.

Sheri slipped out and started retracing her steps, her mind racing faster than her feet could carry her. An elderly couple was admiring a beaded vest in the previous exhibit. He wasn’t there. Panic set in.
Which way should she turn? Did he sneak into the museum shop? What if he was abducted?
Faces of missing kids on milk cartons flashed across her mind. She shook it off. Zig was too clever to be lured by a stranger. He had to be here somewhere. She ran past the great hall into the equally enormous rotunda, past glass cases filled with gold and silver amulets,
masks, vessels, jewelry—no Zig. She dashed through a photo gallery; tribal men and women in larger-than-life prints watched as she almost tripped in the dim spot lighting. She made a left now, going practically full circle on the second floor, looking in corners and around columns for a glimpse of Zig’s red and white rugby shirt. In the museum shop were two saleswomen—one folding a star quilt, the other writing on a pad at the register.

“May I help you with something?” the cashier asked.

Sheri hesitated. If she said her son was missing it would cause a stir. She turned away. The few people walking around did not notice her anxiety. After bursting into the men’s bathroom, causing a security guard at a urinal to swear and fumble, she found herself at the information desk. The receptionist showed a bit of concern.

“Are you all right, Miss?” She paused from stacking her brochures.

“Actually, I’m trying to find my ten-year-old son…He wandered off somewhere on this floor.”

“Did you check the reference library? I saw a boy walk in there a little while ago.” She pointed to an opening behind the desk with heavy carved doors. In her chaos Sheri thought the area was for museum staff. She rushed over and looked inside. To her left she saw the blue jean–clad rears of a man and a boy standing side by side, poring over a large volume of some sort on a desk. Was that Zig? She couldn’t see his shirt. Was he wearing jeans today? She crept closer to them to get a better look. The two were talking quietly. They spoke in another language, Spanish maybe. A word or two sounded familiar—yes, it was Spanish. The boy turned his head and she saw her son’s face.

“Zig!”

At once Zig straightened up and turned around. The school tour sticker was missing from his shirt. He held a crumpled piece of paper in one hand. Sheri recognized the man, too—he was at the lecture, the one in the moccasin boots. He had a chopped ponytail and a small gold hoop earring in each ear.

“Mami!”
Zig exclaimed. He turned to the man and spoke hurriedly, excitedly, but what he said she had no idea. It was not in English. He waved the piece of paper in the air like a white flag. It was the page he had ripped from her journal, filled with her squiggly ink doodles. She was stunned. Was he speaking Spanish?

The thirty-something man extended his hand to Sheri. He spoke to her in Spanish. Sheri stared at his open hand before placing hers in it. She looked at Zig.

“No hablo español.”

The man’s face went blank.

“I’m sorry…I...” The man glanced at Zig. Zig didn’t flinch.

“What’s going on here?” she demanded.

The young man volunteered an answer. “I’m Miguel Murillo, the education curator for the museum. Your son came in to ask some questions about the drawings on this piece of paper.” (Zig held the page in front of his face, as if to hide behind it.) “He wanted to know what tribe they came from and what the symbols meant.”

The awkwardness passed. The man took the paper from Zig and moved closer to Sheri.

“Show my mom what we found about the drawings!” Zig said.

“Sí, it’s right here.” A weighty encyclopedia was open on the desk. But the clock overhead gave Sheri a jolt. How long had she been gone?

“Zig, we have to go right now.” Her eyes darted at the door.

“It’ll only take a second!” Zig pulled her over to the book before she could protest further. On the page were several drawings that were strikingly familiar—the feathery dashes and partial circles, the inverted stick figures, the spindly trees. The heading at the top of the page read:
Ulu Healing Cane and Setee Diagrams.
Nrvai.
All the drawings seemed identical to the doodles she drew as a child and in college; the ones she still drew absentmindedly when she was on the phone or in meetings, in doctor offices, brainstorming for creative ideas... The nausea and dizziness started again. Was this some sort of trick? Wasn’t she on a school trip? Somewhere children and adults were waiting. She heard Miguel explain the drawings—sacred symbols shamans used in healing ceremonies…vary slightly from tribe to tribe…Central American region… particular to indigenous groups in Costa Rica.

He read aloud from the text: “Ulu symbols are perhaps one of the most original and unacculturated graphic art forms remaining in the Central American region, and is a highly concentrated cultural artifact. Whereas many other indigenous art forms in the region are undergoing rapid acculturation, the ulu, by its very nature as a healing instrument, has a higher purpose. Though the ethnographic details may not be long remembered by anyone but the specialist, the sense in which we are linked with nature, psychic, somatic and environmental, may remain.”

Sheri watched Miguel take the book away to make copies, dazed by what she had just heard and seen.

Zig whispered triumphantly, “Told you so!”

Too much was happening at once. The school. The symbols. The Spanish. Her voice cracked when she spoke.

“What were you saying to that man?”

“What?”

“I heard you talking just before I came in here…You were speaking Spanish!”

Zig paused. “I was?”

“Yes!”

He shrugged. “So?”

Sheri looked at her son, bewildered. “How did you? It sounded like fluent Spanish!”

“I dunno. It didn’t feel any different.”

Miguel came back and gave the copies to Sheri. His long arms dangled at his side, as if they were itching to be used.

“We met somewhere before.” He stared at her, searched her face. “Voices of the Elders. You were there—you asked a question.”

She smiled. “So did you.”

“What’s Voices of the Elders?” Zig asked.

“Tell you later, Zig. We better go.”

“I wish you had more time.” He eyed Sheri. For a second she almost blushed. He was kind of young, and it had been a while since she paid attention to a man’s roving gaze.

“We’ll come back tomorrow!” Zig suggested.

“Thanks for the copies,” she said hurriedly, hoping Ellie and his class would not see them leave the library.

Miguel dug in a leather satchel that was slung over a chair. “Take my card, please.”

He quickly scribbled his cell number on the back of the card. “I’m here everyday except Mondays. I’d like to help you with your research.” He locked eyes with her. A peculiar feeling came over her and she looked away. She walked out, Zig grinning alongside her. When no one was in sight she snatched him aside.

“Are you crazy? You think you can do whatever the heck you want? Disappear whenever you feel like it?”

He stared back at his mother’s black expression. “I needed to know
where—”

“Everyone is waiting for you!”

He looked at the journal page Miguel had given back to him. “These drawings are special.”

Her cell started vibrating in her bag.
Shit.
She had no idea where his class was. What if the tour guide found out and the kids had to leave the building? She fumbled to answer her phone but it had stopped buzzing. There were two messages—both from Ellie: