By: Raquel Baker
CASE NUMBER THREE
1.
It started with the dead pigeons. Every few feet I noticed one fallen, turned upside down, scattered along the chain-link fence in the parking lot. What could be causing their demise: air pollution, poisoned water, electromagnetic fields, radon gas, electrified fences . . . global warming?
“Where you from?” the driver asked into the windshield.
His question made me think of the Where I’m From lesson plan I needed to finish for tomorrow’s class. I am from my mother, and she is from collard greens and oxtails, bacon fat and broken down back porch steps. But he probably wants a much simpler answer.
“California.”
“Oh yeah? Whereabouts?”
“The Bay Area . . . Berkeley.”
“Oh, nice. What brings you to Vegas? Work or pleasure?” He turned his head over his right shoulder to make eye contact.
If I were uncompromising, frank, I could tell this Hertz rental car driver to shut the fuck up so I could figure out this bird situation, or maybe finish mentally preparing tomorrow’s lesson plan, or choose an outfit for class tomorrow—but out of polite helplessness, I continue the conversation.
“Work.” My voice made insignificant by the hum of the air conditioning.
“Will you get a chance to go to the casinos before you leave?” The driver turned to me again, flashing his smile.
“No.”
“Don’t worry, they got slot machines in this town that follow you to your hotel room!” He let out three puffs of laughter then a throaty, dry cough. “They got machines that call out your name, follow you down the street! Oh, they know how to get you in this town! They know!” His seat was shaking hard, even though we weren’t going over any bumps.
Before I could decide if I should smile back or say more, I was distracted by the eighth dead pigeon, laying upside down between a cobalt blue Mercedes and a shiny grey Acura.
It must have been electrified fences. Electrified fences protecting all the fancy rental cars. How can the pigeons be so stupid to keep sitting on the fences when they see so many other dead pigeons all around?
“Where you work?”
“At the university.”
“Oh, you a teacher or something?”
“Yes. I’m a teacher.”
That sentence felt so clear. He looked at me through the rear-view mirror, not at my eyes but at me. I sat up straight and pulled my shoulders back. I’m a teacher. Stomach in. I work at the university. I smiled abruptly, this time shooting a look in his direction.
2.
“I can’t believe this is your last week with us, Erin.” My mother stepped back into the mirrored entryway, “We barely got to see you at all, you worked so much.”
She shooed me inside, away from the heat.
“I don’t know why you want to stay in some old hotel when you could stay here with your parents.” You really must hate your mother to stay in a hotel. Arthur! Your daughter’s here.”
“Mooommmm! It’s all about the perks,” I tried to remain cheerful. Upbeat. Itinerant flecks of water fell from the desert mirage wall fountain out onto the upgraded porcelain floor.
“Hi, baby,” my dad said padding into the entryway with bare feet.
My mom adjusted the fountain’s switch, “What perks?”
“The free continental breakfast. And the little bottles of shampoo and conditioner, and—”
“Free continental breakfast? Last week you said you didn’t eat breakfast when I offered to make you something before your flight. I guess you just don’t like my breakfast.”
“Mooommmm! I usually don’t eat breakfast. But if it’s free, I—”
“Leave the girl alone. That’s why my daughter stays in a hotel. She barely got in the house, and you already at her throat. Come on in, baby, sit down. You want to watch a movie? You want to order pay-per-view?” Dad pinched my cheek and winked at me, leading me through the darkened entryway toward the family room.
“No, it’s fine, Dad. I’ll just watch whatever’s on.”
The afternoon sun streamed in from two large panes of glass stretching almost from floor to ceiling on the wall opposite the couch. The sunlit beigeness of the room drowned out the image on the TV, a black man with deep trenches of scars crisscrossing his back, but I stared intently anyway and tried to focus on the announcer’s narration, “This period in American history left behind some of the most unbearable scars on the . . .” trying just to watch TV, “ . . .When the desired number of African slaves was met for shipping. . .” trying just to watch TV. Straight back so as not to lean too heavily into the designer pillows that bled magenta into the room’s beige atmosphere. Stomach in. Hands in lap. Eyes facing forward but I could feel my mother examining me from the kitchen. I tried not to move too much or wrinkle anything or take up too much space or to be in, in some way, hating my mother.
“So, how’s your friend,” she finally said to my back.
After seven years, she still refused to say Alec’s name.
“He’s fine, mom.”
“He enjoyed his stay last week? He didn’t say too much. He’s awfully quiet.” She let
the accusation indict all of the guilty parties—him for being quiet and me for dating him.
“He’s just seems like such a . . . stick in the mud, Erin. So, while your father is out of the room, tell me, are you in love with him? I mean, is he the one?”
He wasn’t the one but still there were these seven years between us, holding us together, and I didn’t know, but I just couldn’t talk about it with my mother, who, the first time she met Alec, said to my aunt, who immediately called and told me, “I just don’t understand, Vicki, really. Does she have to date the straight-up slave master?”
My mother never said, “Straight up,” but I understood what my aunt meant.
“Yes, mom, he’s the one.”
“I guess if he’s the one, it doesn’t matter what I say. Lord knows your grandmother didn’t want me to marry your father.”
2a.
I’d never heard this story before. I was intrigued. Not implicated. I turned to look at her. Her housedress hanging lazily off her left shoulder, she tugged at the neckline, trying to center it.
“You never told me that before, Mom.”
She walked across the kitchen and wiped the granite counter with a paper towel, “It’s true. Sometimes these things happen with no rhyme or reason, against all good sense.”
Wiping, wiping, her face softened into a somewhat sad smile.
My body started to soften, too.
“But you know, Erin, on a completely different subject, I was meaning to talk to you about something. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I really must tell you. As your mother. You really need to lose some weight. I’m not talking about being a beauty queen, I’m just talking about being healthy. I guess you haven’t noticed, but I’ve lost 30 pounds since your father and I moved here, just by cutting down on carbohydrates and walking on the treadmill everyday for 90 minutes.”
The breath came out of me heavy. I couldn’t answer. I knew better than to let my guard down around my mother, but the whole grandmother-hated-Dad thing made her seem, well, almost like me.
“Tell me, Erin, honestly, what did I do? Both you and your brother have this problem. It must be something I did. Or didn’t do. You both grew up with me and you both have it, so tell me. I want to know. And be honest. What did I do?”
My throat constricted. I felt caged.
And then the smack. The hard assaulted sound of forward motion abruptly cut off; the window vibrated; and a small, tan bird slid slowly down the length of the pane. Its body motionless. Its head bent back away from the glass.
“Oh, god, those birds do that all the time! Erin, did you see that? It flew right into the window!”
I walked up to the glass; once pristine, now stained with a palm-sized smudge—a spot just above my forehead. A small bird lay on the ground on the other side of the glass. Its tan feathers blowing in the imperceptible wind, the wind you couldn’t feel if you went outside into the 110-degree heat. The upturned feathers colliding, revealing smaller, spotted ones, and a white, fluffy down underneath.
“Do you think it’s dead?” my mother finally sounded concerned.
“Art! You need to come and pick up this dead bird.” She tugged the stretched-out collar of her dress to the left, to the right.
“This happens at least three times a week, Erin; I tell you, three times a week, at least.”
It started like that with the dead pigeons that were scattered every few feet along the chain-link fence in the parking lot in Vegas. I was just there on a five-week assignment, to work, to work at the university.
3.
A white man, wearing only a black raincoat, standing next to a white horse. It isn’t raining. The man holds out his hand to me and asks if I want something to eat. I say, “No.” He opens his mouth, and his voice blares out, “First case of West Nile virus in the Bay Area. . . .”
The radio mingled the doom of the world with my dreams, just as it did every morning.
. . . San Jose man contracts disease from contact with local mosquitoes. Vallejo girl kidnapped from her high-school campus yesterday. But first, Oakland man dies in police custody. You’re listening to the Morning Edition. NPR. It’s 11 minutes before the hour. . . .
I lay in bed, awake now, not sure if I had already fallen back asleep or if I was waking up for this, the very first time. I could hear the click, click, click of Alec’s boots across the wood of the bedroom floor.
“Erin, are you awake? Listen to this.” Alec click, click, clicked across the room to turn up the radio. I raised my head off the pillow.
Nearly three months after the discovery of a dead crow signaled the arrival of West Nile virus in Santa Clara County, blood tests have confirmed that a 50-year-old San Jose man is the first to have contracted the disease from infected mosquitoes in the Bay Area. The man does not recall being bitten by mosquitoes. The virus—showing up in birds, horses, and . . . .
“Oh, God, turn it off!” is all I could say, Alec click, click, clicking from bedroom to kitchen to bathroom and back to the bedroom again.
“Can you believe that?” he said, poking his head into the bedroom. “It’s here. Do you think we should get vaccinated?”
“No,” I slammed my head back into the pillow.
Alec clicked over to the bed. “Well, Senator Boxer issued a health alert that Californians should consider vaccination.”
“She did?”
“Yeah, think about it, poo poo,” he stopped clicking and held my shoulder.
“Hey, can you turn the radio off.”
“OK,” he let go and the clicking started again, “but I’m out, don’t fall back asleep. It’s 9:30.”
I wasn’t sleeping. I was making a mental list of all the reasons why I should get up, kiss him goodbye: connection, build the intimacy I want in my life, so I can be like those TV girlfriends. They probably don’t dream about food and never seem to have morning breath. Yeah, on the con side, morning breath. Intimacy. I sat up. Maybe no kiss. Just get up and say goodbye. Before I could decide, he collected his organizer from the bureau and walked out of the bedroom. I heard his clicking through the living room and down the stairs and the final click of the front door.
I slammed my head back into the pillow. New list: all the diseases, epidemics, and scourges I’d been fortunate enough to miss, even though they were heavily advertised in the media:
Diseases, Epidemics, and Scourges I Managed to Miss
- STDs (no Chlamydia, Syphilis, Herpes, Trichomoniasis, or
Gonorrhea—well, OK, I got crabs–once.)
- Killer bees.
- HIV—even though I didn’t always use a condom.
- Anthrax.
- Tuberculosis.
- Measles.
- Lyme Disease.
- Influenza—the kind you die from.
- Candied apples with razor blades or other forms of poisoned Halloween candy.
I felt fairly confident I could go without a West Nile virus vaccination despite what the radio, my Senator, or my boyfriend have to say.
4.
In the school cafeteria, I settled down for a long night of studying: articles to read, essays to grade, lesson plans to make for tomorrow. I liked to study in the cafeteria until it closed in case I needed a break snack, an energy snack, a motivation snack, a reward snack, a snack snack, or a procrastination snack. I felt a migraine boring quietly. I wondered if it was stress, or if I just needed some water, or perhaps a snack. I scratched a bump on my ankle, and made a mental list, thinking about the very best snack I could get for my snack dollar.
- An egg, 25 cents—cheap, but not that appetizing.
- An Odwalla drink, healthy, yummy—but 3 bucks, too much for a liquid that doesn’t get you drunk.
- French fries–$1.50, delicious, cheap, but clearly unhealthy so that it would be more like having guilt with a side of snack.
- Lemon bars . . . .
My cell phone interrupted my mental listing.
“Erin, are you there?”
“Yes. Hi, Mom.”
“What? I can’t hear you. Where are you?”
“At school, studying.”
“Oh, you’re in the library?”
“No, I’m in the cafeteria.”
“Oh. Are you studying or eating?”
“I’m reading The Season of Migration to the North.”
“Oh, reading. Well, I just hope you’re not eating.”
I wanted to. I really wanted to. And I didn’t. Quietly, in the background, my head was being ground into a fine silt and I didn’t want my mother in there right now. I didn’t want her to know what I wanted. I wanted to finish my degree; and then apply to PhD programs, which I wouldn’t get into; and then take ten years to finish once I finally did get into one; and I just wanted a cheap snack that would taste good and make me feel better and be my mom and my boyfriend and care for me for awhile.
“I’m not, Mom.”
“Well besides studying, how are you?”
“OK.”
“You don’t sound OK?” she said, not like she was concerned but like she was annoyed. “I just heard on the radio about two cases of West Nile virus in California. Did you hear about it? Some young girl in Southern California came down with it.”
“What? When?”
“I just heard it on the radio. I think she was an Olympic athlete, and she’s been paralyzed for three weeks. You haven’t heard anything about it?”
“No.”
“Oh, they aren’t offering vaccinations at your school?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Well, I just called to see how you were, but it sounds like you don’t want to talk right now.”
“Mom.”
“Yes.”
“When you were a kid, what did you want?”
“What did I want? Why do you ask that?”
“I just . . . you never told me before. And I was just wondering, when you were a kid, what was your dream?”
“My dream?”
“Well, I know it wasn’t to have a boring kid like me.”
“What? What do you mean? You were my baby. But, before that, when I was a young girl, I guess . . . I guess I wanted to play the violin.”
She laughs. Or maybe it was just breathing.
“The violin? I never even knew you played?” I inched my fingers down through the collar of my shirt and felt a small, raised bump. I scratch, scratch, scratched.
“Oh, yes, I played in grade school. All through grade school, and I was . . . “
A flyer left behind at my table caught my attention: West Nile Virus: What You Can Do. It’s key-lime-pie green. In script that’s white like whipping cream.
- Use repellent with DEET.
- Avoid standing water in gutters.
- Report dead birds to the Facilities department on campus.
I flashed back to the rental car parking lot, the large window in my mom’s house of glass. It’s hard to explain how you feel when you have no feeling at all.
“It starts with the birds.”
“What? What did you say, Erin?”
I didn’t realize I had said that out loud.
“The virus, mom. I understand it starts with the birds. Anyway, what happened?”
“What happened with what?”
‘The violin. Why didn’t you keep playing?”
She laughs in short bursts, like dreams escaping, except it’s only air.
“Your grandmother. Your grandmother didn’t want me to play. She said this was real life, and real life was difficult, and who would ever give a black girl money for playing the violin.” More waves of air lost, pulsing through Wifi towers that migratory birds sometimes ran into.
“Mom.”
“Yes.”
“Why is it so hard to be free?”
“What? Erin, speak up. I can’t hear you.”
I heard her, as if from a distance. A distance wider than miles or cell phone towers. Or longing. Or neglect. I heard her as if in the background of a digitized symphony playing Schubert’s “String Quartet #3 in A Minor”. I heard her as if she were a pounding. As if she were a phantom pounding in my head. I heard her. But I couldn’t move my lips to tell her,
Mom, I wish you had kept playing the violin.
