In the Heat of Summer

(continued)

By Marta Palos

She knows I love her looks, so why the glance? I admit, in the beginning the contrast between her dark colors and my fair complexion gave a sizeable boost to my ego. When people stared, I gave her hand a comforting squeeze, smugly proud of my liberal approach to racial differences. But by now we're so close, the question of race never even enters my mind.

"A brown Indian face and those bright colors would go well together," I add.

"And that's a compliment or what?"

"Why, what else do you think it is?"

It's too hot in the room, she says, and walks out to the back porch. I make a drink of orange juice and gin and follow her. The porch has no furniture. I hand Cora her glass and sit on the floor.

"That snaking thing in your painting reminds me of Olympus Road," I say, to break the silence.

"Where the gods live," Cora nods. "Are those people rich?"

"Not terribly. Educated middle or upper-middle class. They sort of keep to themselves."

"I know the type. They must be a bunch of snobs."

Cora is quick to call people with money or degrees snobs, forgetting that her grandmother in Flagstaff helped her through art school; that grandma wasn't quite without money either, though her salary as a high school teacher wasn't too famous. Still, compared to her kin on the reservation, she was well off.

"How about freeing your mind of misconceptions, Cora? Take the facts, add a little logic, and you can deduct the actual state of things."

"I bet somebody famous said this."

"As a matter of fact, it was Socrates. He said —"

"I don't care what he said. I barely exist for you."

"Hey, stop it, Cora! You're blowing things out of proportion."

"Don't shout, okay? Unless you want the old lady next door have a great time."

"I don't care about the lady next door. The bottom line is, I don't want to stay a mailman forever."

"Quit then, for all I care."

"I can't. We need the money."

"I'll sell my paintings."

"For a hundred a piece? No way."

After a long pause, she says, "Tomorrow is your relief day, right? We could go to the mountains and walk in the woods where the wind makes the pines sing. There are beautiful places in Colorado, I heard."

"I'm sure there are. The natives never tire of telling me."

Cora laughs. She laughs out of frustration, I guess, but at least peace is restored.

To get out of the stuffy rooms and to avoid new arguments, in the evenings I go for walks in the neighborhood. One night I'm about to pass the house of the old lady next door when a raspy voice stops me with a "hello, there." She's sitting in a rocking chair on her porch, the light from a bare bulb falling on her white mane.

"Too hot inside, isn't it," she says. "How's your pretty wife?"

"We're not married, ma'am."

"Well, I heard you argue, so I thought you were. Let me tell you something, young man."

But she doesn't say a thing. She just rocks and rocks, as if she had another eighty years or so ahead of her.

At last she speaks up. "I don't know exactly what you and your girlfriend fight about, but I bet you want something, and she wants something else. She has her own mind."

"You met Cora?"

"We had a chat or two. A nice girl, but headstrong. Just like you."

"You don't even know me, ma'am."

"I know enough. Your problem is, you're too smart for a mailman. Your other problem is, one of you will have to give in. But the thing is, from your cradle to your grave everybody on earth wants you to compromise. Well, don't let them."

I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

"I see you want to go, son. Go, but remember what I said about compromise."

That said, she rises from her chair and goes inside. A thinking old woman. Quite a surprise, to find someone like her in this godforsaken neighborhood.

On the poorly lit streets my father keeps in step with me. The simple carpenter he was he also had an inquiring mind. But where did that take him? He died stone-drunk and alone on the shore of Perry lake, sixty miles from Kansas City. How he got there and why, no one ever found out.

I hear the crying of children in the house I've just passed, then a man's voice, ordering them to shut up. The kids cry louder. Who is the father? A janitor? A vacuum cleaner repairman? Whatever he is, he's having a hard time relaxing. He's probably drunk, and got so out of sheer desperation. Maybe my father's addiction to booze wasn't entirely his fault, the thought crosses my mind.

I turn back home. A shaft of light from the living room falls across the sidewalk. Cora is still awake, waiting for me. And when we go to bed, sex-starved as we were for some time now, passion makes an overwhelming comeback. And as long as our bodies understand each other, I think all is well.