At night, because I want to conserve myself, I go to my house. Not where I used to live — the abandoned Spanish estate surrounded by sunbaked palms — I mean the house my grandfather left me, the old Southern Pacific boxcar that sits stranded in the dry riverbed, where the river used to run before the great flood of 1867. Most people thought he was peculiar, like my mother (may she rest in peace) and now me, but he knew one day I would need a place to hide, a safe dark place far from the world of contracts and escrows.
Last night my brother, the attorney, came to visit me. I was standing in the corner of my boxcar, mesmerized by the moonlight filtering in through the vent at the opposite corner. When he threw back the heavy doors and climbed up into my boxcar, he had no way of knowing I had been crying, for my tears, like the river, are drying up.
"How long do you think I can hold them off?" he said, holding both palms out in front of him, moonlight washing over them. His face, lighter than mine, favoring our mother's side of the family, was outlined in silver, his nose as sharp as his wit. "She's getting impatient. This lawyer of hers has the instincts of a pit bull. The heart of a rattlesnake. You think he'll stop at conservatorship? He'll take everything, including you. And your own wife will let it happen! Do you want that?"
When we were boys, my brother once made me sign a confession that I had stolen cigarettes from my mother's purse. He hid it in a sombrero that hung high, too high for me to reach, on our bedroom wall. He told me he had a copy hid somewhere else in case I tried to get a ladder and destroy what was in the sombrero. Whenever he wanted me to do something, he would say, with the same expression he was using now to convince me to return to the civilized world, "Do you want that? Do you want me to show them what's in the sombrero?"
"The thing is," he continued, "they're going to do what they want with the river and it doesn't matter a damn what you think. You can't stop progress." His hands, heavy with the moon, fell to his sides. He sat down next to the sturdy double doors latched to the outside of the boxcar, and when he sat, so did I, like when we were boys, sitting cross-legged and smoking together in this same hideaway.
I had some grapevine from the neglected arbor at the back of the old house, so I snapped off a piece and offered it to him. "What's this?" he asked, reaching out. "A stick?" He turned and studied it in the glow from the open doorway. "Some kind of peace offering?" He chuckled and said to himself, "Act like a monkey, they'll put you in a cage." He started digging in his pants pocket. "You'd better get this out of your system, brother, this childhood thing, before it's too late. Time's running out. Here," he said, offering a light.
I scooted closer and leaned into the moonlight so he could see me. He lit my grapevine, and I could feel his eyes searching my face, as if he wasn't certain he knew me. Then he lit his own and coughed. "Jesus," he said, sputtering. "This what's making you so weird? Or is it something stronger.”
Wait," he said, holding out his hand, coughing, "don't answer that. Anything you say may be used against you. You know," he said, taking a deep breath and leaning back against the wood siding, "I think I know what you're doing. Remember when we tunneled down from inside that huge clump of pampas grass and dug out a secret place, an underground den, just for us?" I nodded. "There was magic in the way you could just sit there with a candle burning in one of those dug-out dirt shelves and do nothing. Just sit there and watch the flame." I nodded again and took a drag off my grapevine.
The smoke curled ribbons in the still silver light. The moon was our candle now, and the soft babble of the distant river ran like youthful blood in our veins.
"Remember when we used to float on that old raft down to the willow pond and fish for bass?" he said. "Remember at night, the frogs would croak so loud. God, there must have been thousands. Millions. Now even the horned toads have disappeared." He took a cautious drag and looked outside. "Is that a full moon? Maybe a day off. I can't tell the difference anymore … but what does it matter?" The tone of his question told me it did matter — it mattered that the natural world had grown indistinct, like a dream he could no longer remember.
"But that was then and this is now," he said, knowing my thoughts, "and the pond's been gone a long time, hasn't it?" I didn't answer, because I had plans for resurrecting a pond of a different sort and it would have been a mistake to tell anyone, even my brother.
"You know," he said, putting on his attorney's voice, "this project is big, it's important, it means a lot of money to a lot of people. That's what it's all about. You know that." He flicked his grapevine, expecting ashes. "You haven't forgotten about money, running around out here in the moonlight, have you?" He searched in the shadows for the brother he used to know. I sat very still, waiting for him to finish. "They just keep coming, following the sun, and the houses keep going up." He was beginning to sound apologetic. "Everyone needs water, don't they?" His palms opened to the moon again, as if releasing all responsibility. "We can't stop time, can we?" Once again I didn't answer, because I had a plan for that, too.
"Well …" He stubbed out his grapevine and stood, looking out across the valley floor to the dark mountains in the distance. The sky, once shot through with millions of stars, was smeared with diffuse light, and the sound of traffic, formerly a curiosity that roused the dogs from their sleep, made a steady hiss in the distance. Hands in his pockets, he turned toward the river. I knew what he was thinking. He wanted to stay, to return to a life free from complications, but he had crossed over an invisible line years ago, decades ago, and he could no longer find his way back.
*
The valley silt is mixed with granitic sand from the river canyon. I've been lying in a bed of it for five hours now, and the sun is high, blinding. Rolling my head to the left, I can see the Temblor Range, an eroded landscape reminiscent of the Black Hills; on my right, the Sierra Nevadas release their melting white waters — the lifeblood of the valley — into this same river swirling five feet from my head. Where it begins, I can imagine quaking aspen clinging to creek banks, fluttering. The light, cast in gold as it melts away the snow, penetrates the valley haze and spreads a warm membrane over my body; the river carves the canyon in the same way time has altered my face, the same face I began with, on this same soil more than two generations ago, yet no one who saw me then would know me now. Likewise the land, this sand that holds me, after little more than a hundred years in the hands of my paternal ancestors, has changed beyond recognition.
To my family and business associates the river is a possession, like the land itself, something to exploit. For me it has become my blood. I am possessed by it. They'll try to take me away from it, because I've forsaken their ways. My presence here, like a beached whale, bothers them. I refuse to pay taxes, to answer mail, to see a psychiatrist or a priest, or to sign their precious papers. I just lie here, part of the land that owns me, decaying, and I refuse to talk to anyone.
Long ago, longer than anyone can remember, this land was rich with natural growth, and a vast lake covered much of the southern valley. I know this because of things my grandfather told me, and because my spiritual guide has shown me in dreams. Her name is Atalaya and she tells me the river that fed the lake, in the days of her people, was known as La Porciuncula. She says the true nature of the river will be revealed when I leave my body. In the meantime, I must lie here every day, listening to the river, feeling the sun, waiting to be told what to do. If no one speaks to me, no one from the spirit world, then I must listen more closely. And if the river tells me nothing, then nothing is what I must do.
My eyes are closed and the afternoon sun is pouring down on me. My consciousness is a halo of gold with a bright white center. I feel Atalaya coming from far away. The sand is warm on my palms and my body is light. She comes from the white mountaintops, in the river, spinning like a leaf in the rapids. A steep granite canyon forms a spillway for her spirit, and the closer she comes, the lighter I feel. The seconds turn to minutes, and the minutes fade to whiteness, and when I can no longer feel my body, time disappears.
Her voice is faraway and near all at once, vibrating in every drop of water. White becomes gold, slowly, and a dark spot emerges from the center of my consciousness, growing as it comes near, changing into a figure, a small boy. He is sitting on the bank of a river in the shade of a tall cottonwood. The river is clear and his bare feet dangle in the water. They seem larger in the water than out of it. The silty bottom is smooth and dark.
A hawk descends on a dying cottonwood on the far side of the river, downstream. The boy stands and walks in the shallow water along the bank, feeling the wet sand between his toes, walking to a spot opposite where the hawk waits. Close by lies a third cottonwood — much larger than the two that are still standing — that has fallen across the river. Its roots, exposed, still cling to the muddy bank, and green shoots have sprouted all along the trunk. The water flows up against the fallen tree and slides beneath it. The boy steps up on the old tree and balances carefully, then begins walking on his toes, arms extended. With the current moving beneath him, he walks toward the far bank, imagining he's a hawk.
The sun is beginning to set, and the golden light fades to orange as the little boy rides the wind to the center of the river. The water is deep, the current swift, and the diameter of the tree has diminished. Ahead of him, beyond the reach of the fallen tree, a sandy bank marks the old riverbed, and beyond that sits the hawk in the dying cottonwood. With each step he takes the narrowing tree dances in the current, and in the fading light, the bottom of the river is no longer visible. Realizing he has gone too far, he stops. The hawk explodes from its perch and spreads its wings while turning, blocking the sun from view.
"Mr. Forbes?" says a voice. "Javier de los Santos Forbes?”
I open my eyes, and there is only an outline, a silhouette. A large man hovers over me, blotting out the sun. He holds a briefcase in one hand.
"I've been sent by the Conservator's Office to interview you. Would you mind if we go back to your house? I'd like to ask you some questions regarding your personal affairs — land, business, and so forth."
I sit up and stretch, having been lying down in the sand for nearly twelve hours, then get to my feet. The sand is beginning to cool now, and as we walk, I can hardly differentiate between the sand and the bottoms of my bare feet.
When we reach the boxcar, I hop up lightly, then turn and offer my hand, steadying myself with my other hand against the bulky door latched against the outside of the car.
"Mr. Forbes, I think it would be a good idea if we went to your house. You may want to refer to documents, and I'd like to see how you're getting along, if you know what I mean."
The man, refusing to extend his hand, looks small to me now. His balding pink head sports a central tuft of fine blonde hair and his puffy face shines like a slick melon. In his damp black suit, he wears the heat awkwardly. A look of mild bewilderment dominates his blue eyes. "I really do think it would be in your best interests if we went back to your legal residence to conduct this interview. I don't know how much you understand of what I'm saying, but my report is crucial to your well-being. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
I nod with wide eyes, raising my bushy black-and-gray eyebrows. He can't help staring at my hair, the tangle of scrubwire bursting from my skull.
"Good," he says. "Then let's go back now. Mrs. Forbes should be arriving soon. She wanted to be here, in the event some matters needed clearing up, and her attorney made it clear he would be there as well. I purposely came early because I'd like to talk to you alone first. Let's go back now and you can feel free to tell me anything you like."
I look out to the river. I can't go back now; the dream I've received from Atalaya has convinced me my past and future have merged, and the river is the connecting channel. My life is inseparable from it. If they take the river, they'll have to take me with it. I step backward into the shadows and stand against the wall of the boxcar.
"Mr. Forbes, this is highly unusual, and is not going to work in your favor. Are you sure you want to talk here?" I nod, slowly. "Very well," he says. I step forward and take his briefcase, for it's no easy task to climb into a boxcar, especially if you're burdened with a briefcase.
When I first learned about the water project, I decided to hop a freight and ride north, because I had a premonition that the end of the river would mean the end of me, and since I had always wanted to hop a freight, the time had come to do it then, or maybe never. I was downtown, leaving a real estate office, carrying a briefcase much like the one that burdens this small man. I thought of going home and changing clothes first, but then it struck me. You don't plan to hop a freight any more than you plan to be born. It just happens. So I walked straight to the freight yard and climbed into an empty cattle car.
Along the way I met an old man who had not worked a day in the last forty years, a lonely, ragged man, who after much pleading on my part agreed to accept my briefcase as a gift. I explained to him it would mean a great deal to me since he had admired it, and I didn't think I'd be needing the contents of it when I returned, if I ever did. I wanted to give him something because he reminded me of someone. In his sad brown eyes — gentle, wise — I saw my grandfather, a small man who talked of large matters.
When I was a boy we would sit by the river and talk. He would talk of the earth and its oceans, earthquakes and tides, mountains and valleys. He talked of standing at the rim of the Grand Canyon, how the mighty river below —dammed, impounded and siphoned — seemed no bigger than a rivulet from a leaky faucet, yet it moved more earth in a day than an entire army of bulldozers. And he talked of the great cities of the nation, how they were growing larger and larger, taller and taller. "The larger they grow," he would say, "the smaller we become."
One day he broke a dead branch off a tree and poked holes in the hard sand near the river's edge. "Watch," he said. Slowly the holes began to fill with water fed from beneath. "When I was a boy," he said, "water would flow up out of the ground in many places." He turned and pointed his branch to the east, to the Sierras. "Every year the rivers flow down from the mountains like they always have, from the beginning of time, all up and down the valley. In my grandfather's day they flowed into lakes and ponds, and the water always found its way into the ground. Not too many years ago the underground supply was so great, the pressure so strong, that in places it boiled out of the ground like a big fountain." He dropped his branch and sat down.
"Then more and more people came and they started punching holes in the ground. Now they're making dams and the holes are getting deeper and deeper. They keep taking it out of the ground and holding back the rivers so they keep getting smaller and smaller. Then they build another canal, because they need more water. Meanwhile, who is putting it back? They can't go on taking it out and not putting it back. That's what the mountains are for, but they won't let the mountains do their job." He traced the outline of a mountain in the sand, and a few inches away traced another one. Then he connected their bases with a gently curving line. "See," he said, forming his hands in a cup. "The design is perfect, but they think they can do better. They're blinded by their ambition. Their memories no longer pass from generation to generation, so they don't know how things used to be."
All that night, riding with the old man with the deep brown eyes, I thought about my grandfather and the changes he had seen in his lifetime. The next day I hopped a southbound freight and returned home.
*
The man from the Conservator's Office climbs up into the boxcar and looks around, first at one end of the boxcar and then the other. I don't know what he expects to see, but he seems disappointed. I extend my free hand, palm up, and shrug, to indicate that this is it. This is my house.
"Surely you couldn't be living here," he says.
I nod.
"What do you eat? Where do you sleep?"
I step to the opening and look out to the river. There are reeds and grasses in the bend of the river where the water slows. I point to them. He shades his eyes and squints into the distance. The sun is setting behind a dead cottonwood. I can tell he is nearsighted but doesn't know it.
"You eat vegetation, fish, what?"
I nod. Realizing I am holding his briefcase, I set it down. Then I lift up my shirt, the old long-sleeved white Mexican shirt that belonged to my grandfather, the one with all the pleats and buttons. It is dirty, soaked with sweat, and stinks. But I have grown to love the feel of it. Holding the shirt up with both hands, I display my belly. It is firm, well-muscled. I pound it with my fist. I want him to know I'm in good health.
"Okay, Mr. Forbes," he says, reaching for his briefcase, "I get the idea. Now, I want to ask you a few questions."
His tone tells me I have insulted him without even trying. He seems uneasy, anxious to get on with his business. I sit down to put him at ease; he looks around, as if he wants to join me but can't bring himself to sit on the dirty floor.
"Mr. Forbes," he says, rummaging in his briefcase for a form to fill out, "there's the matter of your unpaid taxes." He sets his briefcase down. "Do you realize your property can be taken from you if you refuse to pay your property taxes?"
I nod. He thinks I am ignorant at best, possibly demented.
"I understand, from talking with Mrs. Forbes' attorney, that you have over three hundred thousand dollars in local bank accounts, yet you refuse to voluntarily pay your taxes."
I nod again, and smile.
"Do you have any intention of ever paying them?"
I shake my head.
"I see," he says. He is holding a form but has nothing to write on, so he squats and tries to make a writing table by balancing his briefcase on his knee, but it is too large and keeps tilting to one side. I snap off a piece of grapevine and light up. Now he's stuffing the form back in the briefcase and setting it down again. "And what of the payments on the Delano vineyard and the packing plant in Terra Bella?" he asks, smacking his dry lips. The air in the boxcar is stifling, still, like stagnant water.
I form my lips in the shape of a zero and puff out two perfect smoke rings. As I watch them rise and widen, I snap off another piece of grapevine and offer it to my guest. He stares back at me, expressionless. "No ... I, don't smoke. Uhhh. Mr. Forbes, what about the office complex in Stockdale and the Tenneco shopping center project? Don't you have any intention of honoring any of these committments?" Nervously he clicks his ballpoint pen, still squatting, waiting for my answer.
I puff out two more smoke rings, but the last is malformed. I'm trying to communicate the best way I know how.
"Can't you give me some indication of what your plans are?"
Now it's my turn to stare. I'm trying to figure out how this man, this product of a culture obsessed with ownership and addicted to economic growth, can possibly understand that it is my right as a free citizen, my duty as an enlightened being in touch with the spirit world, to give the earth back, to finally disown what has never been mine in the first place.
His blue eyes are squinting back at me. A layer of smoke is forming near the stained ceiling, slowly migrating toward the vent in the corner. "Most importantly, Mr. Forbes," he continues, a hint of exasperation in his voice, "what about yourself?" He clips his pen in his shirt pocket. Apparently the rest of the interview will be off the record. "How long do you think you can go on living like some kind of primitive nomad, caring nothing for yourself?"
I can only smile at this man who measures caring in soap, dollars, and potatoes, whose idea of time is defined only by a desk calendar.
"Mr. Forbes," he says, "I'm afraid I have to be going soon. Are you positive you have nothing to say?" I crush my grapevine on the wooden floor and offer to help him up; he hesitates, then accepts my hand. As he turns to leave, his eyes inadvertently tell me that he has reached a decision regarding my official future. "If you should change your mind, Mr. Forbes," he says, hopping down into the dust with a great thud, "I'll be at your house with Mrs. Forbes and her attorney for an hour or two. I would strongly advise you to come there and talk this out."
I can see no reason to go back there, or to wait any longer. I watch as he walks away self-consciously, trying not to swing his briefcase. Gradually he shrinks into the landscape, a stick figure moving toward silhouetted palm trees pasted like cardboard cutouts on the horizon.
I hop down from the boxcar and run for the river. The sand is the same temperature as my feet now — I float across the old riverbed. The water is dark, reflecting the deep blue of twilight. The river is quiet and my ears are growing more sensitive, as they always do when the sun goes down. In the few reeds that remain where the pond used to be, my raft waits. It is sturdy, simple, large enough to sleep on, and I can put ashore whenever I want.
Sprawling cities will continue to consume the earth. Highways, bridges, and dams will proliferate. Atalaya will come to me when my eyes are closed and my breath is still. In time La Porciuncula and I, evaporating, will rise into the heavens as one, and the sands which have washed down from the mountaintops over hundreds of millenia will offer, before reclaiming our residues, a desert for our dreams.
***
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