Chapter 16
This chapter is especially dear to me because one of its elements is true. The story that Tom is told about collards came straight from the childhood of my friend William "Hickory Bill" Ross. He owned a barbecue restaurant here in North Adams for a few years and told me the story that the character Mr. Coontz tells Tom. When he (Bill) retired, I gave him a copy of this chapter.
Dear Mom & Dad: Scratch that.
Dear Everybody: He sat still and numb for a minute, not certain where to begin.
I had an adventure today, Boy, was THAT putting it mildly! and I wanted to tell you about it while it’s still fresh in my mind. Yesterday our Dorm Supervisor called about thirty of us into a conference room after dinner and told us we’d earned our first Liberty. I’ve been here six months; can you believe it? Tom couldn’t. It felt more like six years.
He gave us a choice of three package tours. He paused again, deciding whether or not he should explain why they’d been offered package tours, as opposed to being turned loose. Walter had been open and matter-of-fact about it. He says that technically, we’re still newbies and regulations demand that we stay under supervision until we’ve “proven” ourselves. Various nurses and base staff would accompany them as chaperones to make sure no one went too far off their diets or wandered off altogether. Some of the donors had been angry, taken it like a slap in the face. At the time, Tom had shrugged, but looking back at it now—especially now—he had to agree with them. Still, he left that part out. He wanted to get through the explanations and get on with the story.
We could go into Phoenix for the day; go shopping, visit a museum, see a show, eat in a restaurant, that sort of thing. Or we could go on a “desert safari”—ride horses out into the desert, see the sights, swim in a river, and have a barbecue. Or option three: A day trip into Tempe for some of both. We had until morning to decide which tour we wanted to take. I almost didn’t take any of them. I wanted to see if Irene could go, but she’d come down with a head cold and was in quarantine.
I didn’t feel right about going off to enjoy myself without her, but Nancy and Beth and Joyce ganged up on me and told me to go anyway. They said Irene wouldn’t get anything out of me staying behind, and besides that, she’d want me to go, and on top of that, I really need this break, and I guess they were right. I finally settled on the Tempe trip. I’m a country boy, and couldn’t see spending my first day off in a city, and didn’t think I could take sitting on an unupholstered horse all day either.
In the morning, after breakfast, they marched us to the induction center, where we all had to take a pill. They told us it was an anti-viral med, in case we came across anything that wasn’t on base. That was the claim, he thought grimly. Then they put us on the monorail to take us into Phoenix to meet the buses. There were about a hundred, a hundred and fifty donors, and about thirty chaperones. In Phoenix, they divided us up. Most were going on the safari, and a little more than half of the rest were going into the city. About twenty of us—plus chaperones —got on the bus for Tempe. Spider was in my group; his nurse, Anita Chen, was one of the chaperones. She said she was glad I was going to Tempe, that Spider needed to have friends with him on this trip. For all the good it did him. Tom stared at the page for several seconds more, then started writing again, not really paying attention to what he was saying.
I sat with Spider, and then Anita introduced us to a fifth year donor named Connie, from Cholla Garden. A nice girl, he recalled. Pretty, with rich chocolate skin slightly darker than Spider’s. She’d smiled at them, then seemed to freeze when Spider began to chatter at her. He was lively and animated, more cheerful than Tom had seen him in months, almost manic in his joy. Something about it worried or upset Connie, but then her smile came back. I guess Anita thinks Spider needs a girlfriend. God knows he needs something! He stopped writing again; that cut a little too close to the truth.
Just before we got to Tempe, we crossed the Salt River. To the left of the bridge, which is apparently open only in the rainy season. They brought us to the University of Arizona, where there was a group of students waiting to take us on a tour of the campus’s outdoor art exhibits: Sculptures, mostly, a few murals on the sides of buildings. I didn’t see anything that did anything for me, and neither did a lot of the others. Connie says it’s really just a way to trick us into exercising on our day off. The most interesting thing that happened was some kind of protest. We were being shown some big sculpture—it looked like a pile of junk to me—when about twenty students came by.
More than “came by;” looking back at it, Tom realized they’d been scattered among the crowds of students walking between classes, waiting for the group of donors to come along. Then they suddenly stepped out of the crowd, surrounding them. They started handing out leaflets, advising us to stop supporting the war. I got a look at one of them before they were taken away from us; it was a joke. It said we should organize a mass escape, gave us a list of addresses where we could hide out, phone numbers we could call for help. The lamest thing I’ve ever seen! Next thing you know, there are Police everywhere, grabbing the students and hustling them off somewhere. They were all yelling “Free speech! Free speech!”
Tom stopped again, debating with himself. “Free speech” was not all the protestors had said. Grabbing a knot of donors by the shoulders, one of them asked in a low voice,
“They make you take a pill before you left the base?”
“Yes,” someone answered. “An anti-viral medication.”
“No it’s not. It’s a hom—......” The rest was cut off as a Police officer grabbed him from behind and jerked him away. What, exactly, had he been trying to say? Whatever it was, more than a few donors had been listening. Spider, especially, had been salivating over a pamphlet.
Anita made us all sit down on the nearest patch of grass and talk it out. Our guide said they’re all students, just blowing off some steam, the Police had just been campus security. Anita said she thought they ought to have been allowed to speak their minds; there are a lot of people who oppose US support of the war. Then she said that some of the students are, no doubt, sincere, but even if they are, they’re misguided. The war won’t go away just because a few donors go AWOL, and stopping this one won’t necessarily bring peace anyway. In a little while, we were on our way again, but I noticed a lot of campus police following us around.
After we saw all the art, they brought us to the Gammage Auditorium for a concert. They said the building was designed seventy or so years ago by somebody named Frank Lloyd Wright. They surprised us with the music. After the art tour, we were expecting something hokey, like a string quartet, but it turned out to be a twenty piece jazz band! They played mostly old stuff.......Swing, New Orleans, and something they called Ragtime. It was pretty refreshing, though it was depressing, too. Irene likes to dance to this kind of music, and it hurt to think she was stuck in quarantine with a stuffy nose instead of dancing to a live band with me. Some of the other donors got up and danced in the aisles, but I didn’t. I was kind of tired and didn’t think I’d enjoy it without Irene anyway.
After the concert, it was time for lunch. The university offered to feed us, but nobody wanted cafeteria food. They feed us pretty well on the base, but we all wanted something different. I know some people wanted Chinese, some wanted Mexican, Pizza, whatever. I probably would have gone with the pizza crowd, but Spider was all fired up for soul food. He says I haven’t tasted anything until I’ve had soul food. There’s a place near the campus, so a student named Linda led us there. In our group there was Spider, me, Connie, Anita, and somebody named George that works in the synthetics lab in the hospital.
We were brought to this diner not far from the Salt River, run by a Mr. & Mrs. Coontz. Nice, clean little place, with a menu as long as your arm; everything from barbecue to spaghetti, and all “home made.” Spider insisted on ordering for everybody. He said we didn’t know anything about real food, so we had to trust him. It was really wild. I’ve never seen him so animated. Tom winced, and the pen shook in his fingers. He ordered fried chicken for me, mashed potatoes with gravy, corn on the cob, and “a mess” of collard greens. When it came, I thought they’d made a mistake; I had enough food for three people! But it’s no mistake. They say they love to feed people. Don’t like to see anyone leave their place hungry.
Anita says that six months ago, I wouldn’t have had any problem eating all that, it’s that my stomach’s been trained to eat just so much and then stop. A pity, really, because once I started eating, I didn’t WANT to stop! The fried chicken was to die for, the potato tasted a lot like yours, Mom, but Mrs. Coontz puts something special in the gravy I can’t identify; it just tastes fabulous!
I found the collards especially good. Spider really hit the mark with them. It’s something like spinach, only heavier and with a stronger flavor. Mr. Coontz says they boil them for a good hour with turnip, onion, jalapenos, and ham hocks. Then he told us this story about when he was a little kid and ate some collards at a church picnic. Folk were saying that the woman that fixed the collards “really put her foot in them.” It meant that they were seasoned just right. Then he told us that they put their feet in their collards every day.
I thought Spider would laugh himself to death over that. I guess Anita did, too; she threatened to sedate him if he didn’t settle down. The Coontzes really pulled out the stops for us, even offered to give us our dessert free. They said they appreciate what donors do for the country and love to see them in their restaurant. When we left, they made us promise to come back on our next liberty.
When we got out of there, we still had some time before we had to be back at the university, so we went shopping. I got a turquoise pendant for Irene, some used books, and a few things for Christmas presents, which I’ll be shipping out in a few days. I also bought a painting to hang here in my room. It’s of the Superstition Mountains, which dominate the Tempe skyline. It doesn’t look anything like the mountains back home, but at least it’s a mountain. The gallery owner is going to bring it over to the monorail depot in a day or two, so I’ll have it before I go in for my next donation cycle.
When we got back to the university, the bus was waiting for us, and they brought us thirty three kilos further east to Lost Dutchman State Park, in the Superstitions. Yes, it’s named for the Lost Dutchman’s Mine, though that’s supposed to have been on the other side of the mountain. They brought us in the visitors center so we could see the exhibits: Photos, cactus in pots, a few snakes and rats in glass cases. It didn’t thrill me, but Bess would have liked it.
When we came outside again, the bus was gone. Instead, there were three cowboys with a string of horses waiting for us. They said their names were Jack, Bo, and Slim. They gave me a bay mare named Darcy and a cube of sugar so I could get on terms with her. I guess it worked; she took to me right away, and I didn’t have any trouble with her, but some of the others weren’t so lucky. We practically laughed ourselves sick watching Spider. He was all full of himself and determined to show how at ease he was on a horse, and I’ll bet he’d never even seen one up close before. Tom’s hand was shaking again; perhaps with anger, perhaps with shame. Both, probably, but it had been funny.
He could barely get in the saddle without someone holding the bridle for him, and even then the animal just ignored him. He could pull on the reins until he was blue in the face and she still went wherever she wanted to go. Slim said he just had to show her who’s boss, and he said, “Eff that! She already knows who’s boss. SHE is!” In fact, Spider had said more than that. On this leg of the outing, Spider had fluctuated wildly between determined delight and violent anger, the latter being directed mostly at the willful horse. It must have been the story of his life; being carried along through strange places by strange people, with no control over where he was going or how he was getting there. And then to have no escape from it even on his day off!
They brought us through the park, showed us the sights. Tanya, you wanted to hear about cactus; we saw plenty. They showed us a twenty-foot saguaro surrounded by a chain link fence and proximity alarms. It’s one of ten wild saguaros remaining in the country, and one of three in Arizona. The fence and alarms are to keep it from being stolen. We saw some beavertail and chain-fruit, and lots of creosote. No wildlife, though. With all the talk and laughing, we must have scared off everything within a kilo. After about two hours of riding, we came out on the south side of the mountains, and found the safari group waiting for us, along with the buses, a chuck wagon, and a barbecue. We still had some time before dinner and some people wanted to go look for the Dutchman’s mine, but the chaperones all said no. It would be getting dark soon, and it was dangerous to wander in the mountains alone. Bo said that if the mine ever really existed, it probably doesn’t anymore. There’s some talk that the Apaches filled it in again after the Dutchman left. Slim says he wasn’t really a Dutchman anyway, he was a German, so somebody said that’s why the mine is still lost; everybody’s been looking for the Lost Dutchman’s mine when they should have been looking for the Lost German’s mine.
They built a big campfire for us and nearly everybody gathered around and one of the nurses started everybody singing. A couple of people wandered off, but the chaperones rounded them up double quick. And then some, he mused. Somebody had climbed a slope nearby, later claiming it was to get a photo. When they noticed he was gone, Tom saw two of the chaperones consult a hand-held computer before taking off after him. He was back in custody, loudly proclaiming his innocence, in five minutes. You would have loved the barbecue, Dad. They had beef and pork ribs, pork shoulder, venison, chicken, and rabbit, potato salad and cole slaw, a big pot of beans that had been baking in a hole in the ground for twenty four hours. Hot sauce and mild. Ice cream for dessert. We gorged ourselves, then sat around the fire and sang until it was time to get on the buses.
Tom sat back angrily. It was as if the fucking letter was writing itself. Everything he wanted to say—really wanted to say—was being left out. Like how after six months of submitting like slaves, they still weren’t trusted off the base by themselves; like how they were still being lied to. On the way back to the base, what the unknown student had tried to tell them came clear. The anti-viral medication had been a homing beacon. From somewhere in their guts, each donor was transmitting a radio signal. So if he wandered off, got lost, or tried to run, a simple hand-held computer could tell exactly where he was.
And Spider, with his desperate pleasure and helpless rage. That, too, had become clear. As well as traumatic, for both of them. It had been growing dark. The others were all singing Happy Trails to You at the tops of their lungs. Tom wasn’t; tired at the end of a long day, he was content to sit in the heat of the fire and listen. And in his silence, he saw something odd; several somethings. Spider wasn’t singing either. Instead, he sat staring into the fire with grim eyes. As the afternoon had worn on, he’d grown angrier and moodier, had put less and less effort into being sociable. By the time dinner was digesting, a dark cloud hovered over him. Anita sat close by, watching him intently. There was sympathy in her eyes, but calculation as well. Connie sat beside Spider, staring into the flames with something that looked like resignation. George, the synthetics technician, stood behind him. At first glance, he appeared relaxed and happy, but his arms were loose at his sides and he never took his eyes off Spider for more than a second or two at a time.
“Okay, people!” Somebody shouted. “Time to get on the bus!” Most of the donors stood up at once, still laughing, talking, starting another chorus of the song. Connie heaved a sigh and rose to her feet, walking away into the gathering darkness. Spider stayed where he was. Anita touched his arm.
“Marquess.......it’s time to go.” Spider’s jaw clenched. A man tapped Tom’s shoulder.
“Time to move, pardner.” Tom stood, but his eyes were riveted on Spider.
“Marquess? Did you hear me?” The man pulled on Tom’s arm.
“Come on, son. You can’t do anything for him. Get on the bus.” Tom obeyed, turning away from the fire and went with the man. Then the man let go and Tom spun around to watch him running back toward the fire.
Spider had screamed, a loud, shrill squeal of panic and horror. Silhouetted by the fire, he was struggling in George’s grasp. As the other man got there, Spider had been dragged to his feet, kicking and struggling. Anita had pulled a syringe from her pocket and uncapped the needle. Caught between the two men, Spider was bawling like a baby. The needle spat once, then plunged into his neck. He gave a deep, gulping moan, and sagged to his knees. Tom turned away; he was shaking and his stomach began to heave. In a few seconds, soft hands began caressing his shoulders and he felt the warmth of a body on his back.
“You okay, Tom?” Connie, sounding upset and shaken herself.
“I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“Don’t do that, Tom. Hold it in, even if you have to choke on it. If you throw up, they’ll think you’re sick and take you back to base on a stretcher.”
“Come on you two,” a woman said in a crisp tone. “On the bus.”
“Give him a minute,” Connie answered. “He’s not used to seeing......things like that.”
“Marquess is a friend of yours?” She sounded solicitous now.
“I just met him this morning, but they’ve been friends a long time.”
“Stomach upset?” Her hand was on Tom’s arm. He nodded, concentrating on breathing evenly.
“Let’s get you on the bus; I’ll give you something that will settle it.” Tom nodded again. Connie and the woman each took him by an arm and led him toward the waiting buses. Passing one, he saw that the cargo compartment had been opened and one of several stretchers had been removed from it. Spider, slack-jawed and drooling, was being strapped onto it.
They got on the next bus. Tom and Connie found a seat near the front. The woman left them as they sat and returned a few seconds later carrying a small plastic bottle. She opened it and handed it to Tom.
“Drink that.” Her tone was soft and gentle, but final. No longer feeling nauseated, Tom drank it down, making a face at the taste, and handed back the empty. As the bus started to roll, Connie slipped her arms around him.
“Don’t worry about Spider,” she murmured. “There’s nothing you could have done.” Tom shook his head.
“I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“I have. Tom, I’ve been here five years. I’ve seen a thousand like Spider. He just couldn’t deal with going back to the base; going back to donating. Until he comes to grips with that, there’s nothing you can do for him. Forget about him and think about yourself.” Tom turned to stare at her.
“Can you really blow him off that easily?” Tears sparkled in her eyes.
“No. But it’s reality. Look, it’s good that you care about him, he needs people to care, but you can’t devote your whole life to helping him. There are just some things he has to figure out for himself. Just like there are things that you have to do for yourself. Like staying sane. If you can’t stay sane, you’re no good to anybody.” Tom nodded, letting his head sag until it rested on her shoulder. Connie pressed her cheek onto his hair.
Looking at the finished letter, he was tempted to tear it up. Rip the damn thing into confetti and toss the pieces out the window, then write a new letter and tell the folks at home what was really going on in Arizona. He had a few more minutes to lights out. He picked the pages up and looked them over once more.
What the hell. He picked up the pen. I miss you all very much, especially Bess. Why don’t you stuff her in a box and mail her out here?
Love,
Tom
He folded the fucking lies with care, tucked them in an envelope, and dragged the flap across his tongue, then pressed it closed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dear Everybody: He sat still and numb for a minute, not certain where to begin.
I had an adventure today, Boy, was THAT putting it mildly! and I wanted to tell you about it while it’s still fresh in my mind. Yesterday our Dorm Supervisor called about thirty of us into a conference room after dinner and told us we’d earned our first Liberty. I’ve been here six months; can you believe it? Tom couldn’t. It felt more like six years.
He gave us a choice of three package tours. He paused again, deciding whether or not he should explain why they’d been offered package tours, as opposed to being turned loose. Walter had been open and matter-of-fact about it. He says that technically, we’re still newbies and regulations demand that we stay under supervision until we’ve “proven” ourselves. Various nurses and base staff would accompany them as chaperones to make sure no one went too far off their diets or wandered off altogether. Some of the donors had been angry, taken it like a slap in the face. At the time, Tom had shrugged, but looking back at it now—especially now—he had to agree with them. Still, he left that part out. He wanted to get through the explanations and get on with the story.
We could go into Phoenix for the day; go shopping, visit a museum, see a show, eat in a restaurant, that sort of thing. Or we could go on a “desert safari”—ride horses out into the desert, see the sights, swim in a river, and have a barbecue. Or option three: A day trip into Tempe for some of both. We had until morning to decide which tour we wanted to take. I almost didn’t take any of them. I wanted to see if Irene could go, but she’d come down with a head cold and was in quarantine.
I didn’t feel right about going off to enjoy myself without her, but Nancy and Beth and Joyce ganged up on me and told me to go anyway. They said Irene wouldn’t get anything out of me staying behind, and besides that, she’d want me to go, and on top of that, I really need this break, and I guess they were right. I finally settled on the Tempe trip. I’m a country boy, and couldn’t see spending my first day off in a city, and didn’t think I could take sitting on an unupholstered horse all day either.
In the morning, after breakfast, they marched us to the induction center, where we all had to take a pill. They told us it was an anti-viral med, in case we came across anything that wasn’t on base. That was the claim, he thought grimly. Then they put us on the monorail to take us into Phoenix to meet the buses. There were about a hundred, a hundred and fifty donors, and about thirty chaperones. In Phoenix, they divided us up. Most were going on the safari, and a little more than half of the rest were going into the city. About twenty of us—plus chaperones —got on the bus for Tempe. Spider was in my group; his nurse, Anita Chen, was one of the chaperones. She said she was glad I was going to Tempe, that Spider needed to have friends with him on this trip. For all the good it did him. Tom stared at the page for several seconds more, then started writing again, not really paying attention to what he was saying.
I sat with Spider, and then Anita introduced us to a fifth year donor named Connie, from Cholla Garden. A nice girl, he recalled. Pretty, with rich chocolate skin slightly darker than Spider’s. She’d smiled at them, then seemed to freeze when Spider began to chatter at her. He was lively and animated, more cheerful than Tom had seen him in months, almost manic in his joy. Something about it worried or upset Connie, but then her smile came back. I guess Anita thinks Spider needs a girlfriend. God knows he needs something! He stopped writing again; that cut a little too close to the truth.
Just before we got to Tempe, we crossed the Salt River. To the left of the bridge, which is apparently open only in the rainy season. They brought us to the University of Arizona, where there was a group of students waiting to take us on a tour of the campus’s outdoor art exhibits: Sculptures, mostly, a few murals on the sides of buildings. I didn’t see anything that did anything for me, and neither did a lot of the others. Connie says it’s really just a way to trick us into exercising on our day off. The most interesting thing that happened was some kind of protest. We were being shown some big sculpture—it looked like a pile of junk to me—when about twenty students came by.
More than “came by;” looking back at it, Tom realized they’d been scattered among the crowds of students walking between classes, waiting for the group of donors to come along. Then they suddenly stepped out of the crowd, surrounding them. They started handing out leaflets, advising us to stop supporting the war. I got a look at one of them before they were taken away from us; it was a joke. It said we should organize a mass escape, gave us a list of addresses where we could hide out, phone numbers we could call for help. The lamest thing I’ve ever seen! Next thing you know, there are Police everywhere, grabbing the students and hustling them off somewhere. They were all yelling “Free speech! Free speech!”
Tom stopped again, debating with himself. “Free speech” was not all the protestors had said. Grabbing a knot of donors by the shoulders, one of them asked in a low voice,
“They make you take a pill before you left the base?”
“Yes,” someone answered. “An anti-viral medication.”
“No it’s not. It’s a hom—......” The rest was cut off as a Police officer grabbed him from behind and jerked him away. What, exactly, had he been trying to say? Whatever it was, more than a few donors had been listening. Spider, especially, had been salivating over a pamphlet.
Anita made us all sit down on the nearest patch of grass and talk it out. Our guide said they’re all students, just blowing off some steam, the Police had just been campus security. Anita said she thought they ought to have been allowed to speak their minds; there are a lot of people who oppose US support of the war. Then she said that some of the students are, no doubt, sincere, but even if they are, they’re misguided. The war won’t go away just because a few donors go AWOL, and stopping this one won’t necessarily bring peace anyway. In a little while, we were on our way again, but I noticed a lot of campus police following us around.
After we saw all the art, they brought us to the Gammage Auditorium for a concert. They said the building was designed seventy or so years ago by somebody named Frank Lloyd Wright. They surprised us with the music. After the art tour, we were expecting something hokey, like a string quartet, but it turned out to be a twenty piece jazz band! They played mostly old stuff.......Swing, New Orleans, and something they called Ragtime. It was pretty refreshing, though it was depressing, too. Irene likes to dance to this kind of music, and it hurt to think she was stuck in quarantine with a stuffy nose instead of dancing to a live band with me. Some of the other donors got up and danced in the aisles, but I didn’t. I was kind of tired and didn’t think I’d enjoy it without Irene anyway.
After the concert, it was time for lunch. The university offered to feed us, but nobody wanted cafeteria food. They feed us pretty well on the base, but we all wanted something different. I know some people wanted Chinese, some wanted Mexican, Pizza, whatever. I probably would have gone with the pizza crowd, but Spider was all fired up for soul food. He says I haven’t tasted anything until I’ve had soul food. There’s a place near the campus, so a student named Linda led us there. In our group there was Spider, me, Connie, Anita, and somebody named George that works in the synthetics lab in the hospital.
We were brought to this diner not far from the Salt River, run by a Mr. & Mrs. Coontz. Nice, clean little place, with a menu as long as your arm; everything from barbecue to spaghetti, and all “home made.” Spider insisted on ordering for everybody. He said we didn’t know anything about real food, so we had to trust him. It was really wild. I’ve never seen him so animated. Tom winced, and the pen shook in his fingers. He ordered fried chicken for me, mashed potatoes with gravy, corn on the cob, and “a mess” of collard greens. When it came, I thought they’d made a mistake; I had enough food for three people! But it’s no mistake. They say they love to feed people. Don’t like to see anyone leave their place hungry.
Anita says that six months ago, I wouldn’t have had any problem eating all that, it’s that my stomach’s been trained to eat just so much and then stop. A pity, really, because once I started eating, I didn’t WANT to stop! The fried chicken was to die for, the potato tasted a lot like yours, Mom, but Mrs. Coontz puts something special in the gravy I can’t identify; it just tastes fabulous!
I found the collards especially good. Spider really hit the mark with them. It’s something like spinach, only heavier and with a stronger flavor. Mr. Coontz says they boil them for a good hour with turnip, onion, jalapenos, and ham hocks. Then he told us this story about when he was a little kid and ate some collards at a church picnic. Folk were saying that the woman that fixed the collards “really put her foot in them.” It meant that they were seasoned just right. Then he told us that they put their feet in their collards every day.
I thought Spider would laugh himself to death over that. I guess Anita did, too; she threatened to sedate him if he didn’t settle down. The Coontzes really pulled out the stops for us, even offered to give us our dessert free. They said they appreciate what donors do for the country and love to see them in their restaurant. When we left, they made us promise to come back on our next liberty.
When we got out of there, we still had some time before we had to be back at the university, so we went shopping. I got a turquoise pendant for Irene, some used books, and a few things for Christmas presents, which I’ll be shipping out in a few days. I also bought a painting to hang here in my room. It’s of the Superstition Mountains, which dominate the Tempe skyline. It doesn’t look anything like the mountains back home, but at least it’s a mountain. The gallery owner is going to bring it over to the monorail depot in a day or two, so I’ll have it before I go in for my next donation cycle.
When we got back to the university, the bus was waiting for us, and they brought us thirty three kilos further east to Lost Dutchman State Park, in the Superstitions. Yes, it’s named for the Lost Dutchman’s Mine, though that’s supposed to have been on the other side of the mountain. They brought us in the visitors center so we could see the exhibits: Photos, cactus in pots, a few snakes and rats in glass cases. It didn’t thrill me, but Bess would have liked it.
When we came outside again, the bus was gone. Instead, there were three cowboys with a string of horses waiting for us. They said their names were Jack, Bo, and Slim. They gave me a bay mare named Darcy and a cube of sugar so I could get on terms with her. I guess it worked; she took to me right away, and I didn’t have any trouble with her, but some of the others weren’t so lucky. We practically laughed ourselves sick watching Spider. He was all full of himself and determined to show how at ease he was on a horse, and I’ll bet he’d never even seen one up close before. Tom’s hand was shaking again; perhaps with anger, perhaps with shame. Both, probably, but it had been funny.
He could barely get in the saddle without someone holding the bridle for him, and even then the animal just ignored him. He could pull on the reins until he was blue in the face and she still went wherever she wanted to go. Slim said he just had to show her who’s boss, and he said, “Eff that! She already knows who’s boss. SHE is!” In fact, Spider had said more than that. On this leg of the outing, Spider had fluctuated wildly between determined delight and violent anger, the latter being directed mostly at the willful horse. It must have been the story of his life; being carried along through strange places by strange people, with no control over where he was going or how he was getting there. And then to have no escape from it even on his day off!
They brought us through the park, showed us the sights. Tanya, you wanted to hear about cactus; we saw plenty. They showed us a twenty-foot saguaro surrounded by a chain link fence and proximity alarms. It’s one of ten wild saguaros remaining in the country, and one of three in Arizona. The fence and alarms are to keep it from being stolen. We saw some beavertail and chain-fruit, and lots of creosote. No wildlife, though. With all the talk and laughing, we must have scared off everything within a kilo. After about two hours of riding, we came out on the south side of the mountains, and found the safari group waiting for us, along with the buses, a chuck wagon, and a barbecue. We still had some time before dinner and some people wanted to go look for the Dutchman’s mine, but the chaperones all said no. It would be getting dark soon, and it was dangerous to wander in the mountains alone. Bo said that if the mine ever really existed, it probably doesn’t anymore. There’s some talk that the Apaches filled it in again after the Dutchman left. Slim says he wasn’t really a Dutchman anyway, he was a German, so somebody said that’s why the mine is still lost; everybody’s been looking for the Lost Dutchman’s mine when they should have been looking for the Lost German’s mine.
They built a big campfire for us and nearly everybody gathered around and one of the nurses started everybody singing. A couple of people wandered off, but the chaperones rounded them up double quick. And then some, he mused. Somebody had climbed a slope nearby, later claiming it was to get a photo. When they noticed he was gone, Tom saw two of the chaperones consult a hand-held computer before taking off after him. He was back in custody, loudly proclaiming his innocence, in five minutes. You would have loved the barbecue, Dad. They had beef and pork ribs, pork shoulder, venison, chicken, and rabbit, potato salad and cole slaw, a big pot of beans that had been baking in a hole in the ground for twenty four hours. Hot sauce and mild. Ice cream for dessert. We gorged ourselves, then sat around the fire and sang until it was time to get on the buses.
Tom sat back angrily. It was as if the fucking letter was writing itself. Everything he wanted to say—really wanted to say—was being left out. Like how after six months of submitting like slaves, they still weren’t trusted off the base by themselves; like how they were still being lied to. On the way back to the base, what the unknown student had tried to tell them came clear. The anti-viral medication had been a homing beacon. From somewhere in their guts, each donor was transmitting a radio signal. So if he wandered off, got lost, or tried to run, a simple hand-held computer could tell exactly where he was.
And Spider, with his desperate pleasure and helpless rage. That, too, had become clear. As well as traumatic, for both of them. It had been growing dark. The others were all singing Happy Trails to You at the tops of their lungs. Tom wasn’t; tired at the end of a long day, he was content to sit in the heat of the fire and listen. And in his silence, he saw something odd; several somethings. Spider wasn’t singing either. Instead, he sat staring into the fire with grim eyes. As the afternoon had worn on, he’d grown angrier and moodier, had put less and less effort into being sociable. By the time dinner was digesting, a dark cloud hovered over him. Anita sat close by, watching him intently. There was sympathy in her eyes, but calculation as well. Connie sat beside Spider, staring into the flames with something that looked like resignation. George, the synthetics technician, stood behind him. At first glance, he appeared relaxed and happy, but his arms were loose at his sides and he never took his eyes off Spider for more than a second or two at a time.
“Okay, people!” Somebody shouted. “Time to get on the bus!” Most of the donors stood up at once, still laughing, talking, starting another chorus of the song. Connie heaved a sigh and rose to her feet, walking away into the gathering darkness. Spider stayed where he was. Anita touched his arm.
“Marquess.......it’s time to go.” Spider’s jaw clenched. A man tapped Tom’s shoulder.
“Time to move, pardner.” Tom stood, but his eyes were riveted on Spider.
“Marquess? Did you hear me?” The man pulled on Tom’s arm.
“Come on, son. You can’t do anything for him. Get on the bus.” Tom obeyed, turning away from the fire and went with the man. Then the man let go and Tom spun around to watch him running back toward the fire.
Spider had screamed, a loud, shrill squeal of panic and horror. Silhouetted by the fire, he was struggling in George’s grasp. As the other man got there, Spider had been dragged to his feet, kicking and struggling. Anita had pulled a syringe from her pocket and uncapped the needle. Caught between the two men, Spider was bawling like a baby. The needle spat once, then plunged into his neck. He gave a deep, gulping moan, and sagged to his knees. Tom turned away; he was shaking and his stomach began to heave. In a few seconds, soft hands began caressing his shoulders and he felt the warmth of a body on his back.
“You okay, Tom?” Connie, sounding upset and shaken herself.
“I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“Don’t do that, Tom. Hold it in, even if you have to choke on it. If you throw up, they’ll think you’re sick and take you back to base on a stretcher.”
“Come on you two,” a woman said in a crisp tone. “On the bus.”
“Give him a minute,” Connie answered. “He’s not used to seeing......things like that.”
“Marquess is a friend of yours?” She sounded solicitous now.
“I just met him this morning, but they’ve been friends a long time.”
“Stomach upset?” Her hand was on Tom’s arm. He nodded, concentrating on breathing evenly.
“Let’s get you on the bus; I’ll give you something that will settle it.” Tom nodded again. Connie and the woman each took him by an arm and led him toward the waiting buses. Passing one, he saw that the cargo compartment had been opened and one of several stretchers had been removed from it. Spider, slack-jawed and drooling, was being strapped onto it.
They got on the next bus. Tom and Connie found a seat near the front. The woman left them as they sat and returned a few seconds later carrying a small plastic bottle. She opened it and handed it to Tom.
“Drink that.” Her tone was soft and gentle, but final. No longer feeling nauseated, Tom drank it down, making a face at the taste, and handed back the empty. As the bus started to roll, Connie slipped her arms around him.
“Don’t worry about Spider,” she murmured. “There’s nothing you could have done.” Tom shook his head.
“I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“I have. Tom, I’ve been here five years. I’ve seen a thousand like Spider. He just couldn’t deal with going back to the base; going back to donating. Until he comes to grips with that, there’s nothing you can do for him. Forget about him and think about yourself.” Tom turned to stare at her.
“Can you really blow him off that easily?” Tears sparkled in her eyes.
“No. But it’s reality. Look, it’s good that you care about him, he needs people to care, but you can’t devote your whole life to helping him. There are just some things he has to figure out for himself. Just like there are things that you have to do for yourself. Like staying sane. If you can’t stay sane, you’re no good to anybody.” Tom nodded, letting his head sag until it rested on her shoulder. Connie pressed her cheek onto his hair.
Looking at the finished letter, he was tempted to tear it up. Rip the damn thing into confetti and toss the pieces out the window, then write a new letter and tell the folks at home what was really going on in Arizona. He had a few more minutes to lights out. He picked the pages up and looked them over once more.
What the hell. He picked up the pen. I miss you all very much, especially Bess. Why don’t you stuff her in a box and mail her out here?
Love,
Tom
He folded the fucking lies with care, tucked them in an envelope, and dragged the flap across his tongue, then pressed it closed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN