Barbara Kingsolver - Animal Dreams

I wanted to take the coast highway as far as Nayarit, where it gets rugged, but I paid the price for that little adventure. (Doc Homer would say: I paid a dollar for my shiny dime.) I broke, not bent but flat out busted an axle in Tuxpan and spent two days waiting around while a man with a Fanta delivery truck and time on his hands brought in a new one from Guadalajara. The only hotel was a two-story pension with live band (euphemism) on weekends. I spent the time mostly sitting on my balcony watching pelicans dive-bomb the sea, and remembering our trip to San Blas. Remember those pelicans? If you’d been there, in Tuxpan, it would have been fun. I couldn’t bring myself to do anything productive-there were people I could have talked to about crops and the refugee scene, but instead I spent one whole morning watching a man walk up the beach selling shrimp door to door, He had a pole over his shoulders, with the bucket of shrimp hung on one side and on the other side a plastic jug of water. Every time he sold a kilo of shrimp he’d pour out that much water and drink it, to balance the load. I watched him all the way down the bay and thought, I want to be like that. Not like the man selling shrimp. Like his machine. To give myself over to utility, with no waste.

But I was useless, lying around those two days. Saving my strength for what’s ahead, I guess. I get more jumpy as I move south, like a compass needle or something. Saw an awful lot of dead cropland in the interior, and I know it will be worse in Nicaragua. War brings out the worst in production agriculture.

Tomorrow I cross the border, but it’s hard to say where the border is, because this whole part of Chiapas where I am now is camps of Guatemalans. This whole livelong day I drove horrible mountain roads in the rain and saw refugee camps, one after another like a dream. They say the Guatemalan army is on a new scorched-earth campaign, so people come running across the border with the clothes on their backs and their hearts in their throats and on a good day the Mexican cops don’t bother them. On a bad day, they make them wake up the kids, take down their hammocks, and move into somebody else’s district. It’s a collective death. A whole land-based culture is being relocated out of its land-like a body trying to move out of its skin. Only the portable things survive. The women have their backstrap looms and woven clothes, like you see sometimes in import stores. All those brilliant colors in this hopeless place, it kills you.

Right this minute I’m sitting in the rain, waiting for the mail truck/water delivery (I keep expecting that same guy with his Fanta truck) and watching four barefoot kids around a cook fire. The one in charge is maybe six. She’s sharpening cooking sticks while these damp black chickens strut around shaking themselves and the toddlers pull logs out and roll them to make sparks. I’m just on edge. You live your life in the States and you can’t even picture something like this. It’s easy to get used to the privilege of a safe life.

I know you’re worrying but you don’t have to, since we’ve established that I’m the luckiest person alive. Even though I don’t feel like it. I’ll write from Nica next. I’m sure I’ll be happier once I’m put to some use. I miss you, Codi, write and make me feel better.

Love from your faithful adoring slave-for-life,

Hallie

The ending was an old joke: in our letters we used to try to outdo each other with ingratiating closures. The rest of the letter was pure Hallie. Even in a lethargic mood she noticed every vanilla orchid, every agony and ecstasy. Especially agony. She might as well not have had skin, where emotions were concerned. Other people’s hurt ran right over into her flesh. For example: I’ll flip through a newspaper and take note of the various disasters, and then Hallie will read the same paper and cry her eyes out. She’ll feel like she has to do something about it. And me, if I want to do anything, it’s to run hell for leather in the other direction. Maybe it’s true what they say, that as long as you’re nursing your own pain, whatever it is, you’ll turn your back on others in the same boat. You’ll want to believe the fix they’re in is their own damn fault.

The strangest thing is that where pain seemed to have anesthetized me, it gave Hallie extra nerve endings. This haunts me. What we suffered in our lives we went through together, but somehow we came out different doors, on different ground levels.

Friday night after the first week of school, the dog with the green bandana showed up again at the gate. I saw it when I came outside after my solitary supper to water the morning glories and potted geraniums on my front step. The heat seemed to wilt them right down to death’s door, but water always brought them back. I could only wish for such resilience.

“Hi, buddy,” I said to the dog. “No barbecues today. You’re out of luck.”

Thirty seconds later Loyd was standing at the door with a bottle of beer. “I told you I’d get back to you with this,” he said, grinning. “I’m a man of my word.”

“Well, okay,” I said. “I guess you are.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about seeing him in my doorway, other than surprised. I pulled a couple of folding chairs onto the patio, where we could see the sunset. The sky was a bright, artificial-looking orange, a color you might expect to see in the Hollywood Shop. “Are you going to have one too, or do I drink this alone?” I asked him.

Loyd said he’d just take a soda because he was marked up and five times out. I was mystified by this information.

“I’m marked up on the call board at the depot,” he explained. “To take a train out. Five times out means I’m fifth in line. I’ll probably get called late tonight or early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh,” I said. “It sounded like baseball scores. The count is three and two and it’s the bottom of the seventh.”

Loyd laughed. “I guess it would sound like that. You get used to talking railroad talk like it was plain English. Around here that’s about all everybody does, is railroad.”

“That, and watch the fruit fall off their trees.”

Loyd looked at me, surprised. “You know about that, do you?”

“Not very much,” I said. I went into my house to get him a soda, picking my way over the rough bricks of the patio because I was barefoot. I will say this much for Doc Homer’s career as a father: my arches are faultless.

When I came back out I sat down and handed over a Coke, letting Loyd fight with the easy-off twist cap himself. I had to use pliers on those things. It didn’t give Loyd two seconds of trouble. He palmed it, then tipped his head back and drank about half the bottle. The things that aggravate me most in the world are the things men do without even knowing it.

“So is that your dog?” I asked.

“That’s jack. You met? Jack, this lady here is Codi Noline.”

“We’ve met,” I said. “I sneaked him some goat spare ribs the other day at the fiesta. I hope he’s not on a special diet or anything.”

“He’s in love, is what he is, if you gave him a piece of that goat. That was one of Angel Pilar’s yearling billy goats. Jack’s had his eye on those spare ribs ever since last summer.”

Jack looked at me, panting seriously. His tongue was purplish, and his eyes were very dark brown and lively. Sometimes when you look into an animal’s eyes you see nothing, no sign of connection, just the flat stare of a wild creature. But Jack’s eyes spoke worlds. I liked him.

“He looks like a coyote,” I said.

“He is. Half. I’ll tell you the story of his life sometime.”

“I can’t wait,” I said, really meaning it, though it came out sounding a little sarcastic. Our chairs were close enough together so that I could have reached over and squeezed Loyd’s hand, but I didn’t do that.