Was she a roadrunner? It was hard for her to catch up, but he wouldn’t call her a turtle because when she did catch up he had to hold on to her cheeks as though they were Spirit-of-St.-Louis’ seats in Lindbergh’s plane, the only thing between him and the Atlantic. Then it was rodeo; a lot of bucking and slipping out. It had gone that way for some time until they had fallen out of touch. They had an argument about the Kansas-Nebraska Act. She said that slavery was a state of mind, metaphysical. He told her to shut the fuck up.
“I’m glad to see you, Quaw Quaw; it’s been a few years.” She stared at him, waiting for him to hurt her, but he wasn’t going to. “I see you’re backing up that pirate, Captain Kidd, and his translations of Oceanic poetry. You’re a good dancer, what are you performing behind this character for?”
He was missing her. It showed when he was missing her. Sometimes they had drunk wine together in a café at a table covered with red-and-white-checkered cloth, where the bread was served in woven baskets. They’d rendezvous every time her husband went to those conventions on trade routes he was always attending. Sometimes he was in New York, looking in on his galleries and jewelry stores.
“It’s none of your business, Raven. Times have changed. I’m not your squaw any more. And speaking of squaw, Captain Kidd was the hit of the Squaw Valley writers’ conference last year. People just adored his translations.”
She was getting mad. She was spoiled, often swimming all the way out, teasing the undercurrent of things. She played hard and came from a line of lean, hard players. Her father fought the U.S. Cavalry to a draw. Her grandfather never made peace with the white man and never surrendered and is remembered by a high boulder which sits in the middle of the Colorado River. The only real hard thing he knew about her were her nipples, hot little plums when his tongue would dart over there and give them instructions. When he was lizard-licking those titties, she’d grunt then. “You’re just not broad enough, Quickskill. You’re … you’re too … too ethnic. You should be more universal. More universal.”
“How can I be universal with a steel collar around my neck and my hands cuffed all the time and my feet bound? I can’t be universal, gagged. Look, Quaw Quaw, they want your Indian; that’s what they want, and you’re giving it to them. You’re the exotic of the new feudalism. For what Camelot can’t win on the battlefield it’ll continue in poetry. Nobody starts a war with poetry for fear of being made to look like a philistine. Look, I dip my spoon into the pot. Sometimes my shoestrings break, and I go a long time without buying new ones. I’m coarse, I’m rude, but that’s the democrat’s style. That’s why they’re calling Abe the Illinois Ape. He’s standing up to them. The South can’t continue Camelot. That’s what it’s all about. Effete men leaving the management of their plantations to uncles; the women playthings; popinjays partying endlessly, flowery waistcoats. And their poetry — gentlemen’s gardening triviality. If they love birds so much, why are they killing them off? But your friends, and their exotic dabbling — their babbas, their yogi — are on the same trip. They’re going to get your Indian and my Slave on microfilm and in sociology books; then they’re going to put them in a space ship and send them to the moon. And then they’re going to put you on the nickel and put me on a stamp, and that’ll be the end of it. They’re as Feudalist and Arthurian as Davis, but whereas he sees it as a political movement, they see it as a poetry movement.”
“There you go with that race stuff again. Politics. Race. People write and paint about politics because they have nothing else to say.”
“You’re so fucking glib. People have nothing else to do my ass. You’ve been hanging out with the Apostles of Aesthetics and you like them because you think they want to put you in a tower and fight dragons over you. You don’t look like Guenevere to me. You want some punk to strum on a mandolin some old knightly song while you flutter your eyes and sip martinis. Well, drat your universality. We slaves don’t have time to be sitting around on velvet-cushioned couches contemplating ‘dragonflies moving with the wings of gauze’ all day and shit.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t understand. You’re so … so savage.”
He turned around and hurried away. He glanced at Carpenter in the front room and pumped his hand. “Maybe I’ll run into you in Canada,” he said, but Carpenter didn’t hear him.
He was about to open the white picket gate when Quaw Quaw called, “Don’t be mad, Quickskill. Don’t leave so soon. I was just trying to communicate.”
“Communicate what?”
“You know how non-verbal I am.”
“I don’t get you. Listen, I have to go home and pack.”
“Pack? You taking a trip, Quickskill?”
“Yeah, I’m going to Canada.”
“Is that a permanent move?”
When he said yes, there was a glint of sadness in her eyes. Sure, they had discontinued their playing around, but it was nice to know that they were in the same town.
She started to pout, real cute, though she got all suffragette and curt when he called her “cute.” She held her hands behind her back and began to look disappointed. “Quickskill, there’s a den downstairs; let’s go down and have a drink. There’s a television set. I will never forget how much you like television. You would keep it on without even looking at it.”
“I’m glad to know it’s there. The world will disappear if it’s not there.”
“Come on, Quickskill.” She led him by the hand.
“I can’t stay long.”
They entered the house and walked back, passing Carpenter and his guests.
They made drinks in the den. She had a double vodka on the rocks with a twist of lemon; he, some red wine. He got up and turned on the television set. This was a nice room that Carpenter had made in the basement of his house. Around the walls were photos of African architecture. There was a conference table where he held meetings for his Carpenter Company. They restored log cabins. Not the usual log cabins but ones with space and light; peaceful log cabins. There was an educational television play on. It was being presented live from Washington. The opening shots showed dignitaries arriving. Searchlights. The carriages were pulling up, and people were standing outside the Ford Theatre.
The play’s audience was giving President Lincoln a standing ovation; his white wife, Mary Todd, stood next to him. They were beaming. He could see her eyes glistening. People in Emancipation liked her. A most unusual First Lady. She said what was on her mind, sometimes embarrassing her husband.
The audience was applauding wildly. Lincoln, a twinkle in his eyes, was waving back.
“It’s the President,” Quaw Quaw said. “That hick. I didn’t know he went in for culture. I read in The Realist that back in Illinois he operated a still. You should have heard the way my professors at Columbia talked about him. They made fun of his Corn Belt accent and that stupid stovepipe. They are so urbane. Many of them have published poems in The New Yorker.
“Yeah, they all read as if they were written in a summer home on Long Island, about three o’clock in the morning, with many things yet unpacked.”
She stood up, balling her fist. “Now, they’re wonderful writers. How dare you attack my sensibilities? This race talk all the time …”
“You’ll never change. Daughter of the West. Pocahontas rushing to place her body between the white man and the arrow intended for him. You and your Anglican Injuns.”
“I knew it would be savage out here. My teachers at Columbia said so. I plan to go back there. I miss the teas and hanging out in the bookstalls.”
“Camelot. Camelot West, Camelot East, Camelot South. One big fucking Camelot. With darkies and Injuns to set places, pour and serve at the Round Table. Playing on the lute and reciting verse, doing court dances. Do you know how your husband treats that swami he’s bought? He’s nothing but a houseboy. ‘Vill Mr. Jack need somring?’ ‘Is Mr. Jack’s footrest not high?’ He locks him in a closet, and told the dog trainer to sniff the swami’s clothes in case the swami got ideas. When the swami did manage to free himself and found a phone, he tried to get some poets to organize a benefit for him, only to discover that your husband, Yankee Jack, had warned them if they tried to help him, he’d cut off their grant money. He can’t even raise carfare to return to India, the poor chap. And that’s not all, there’s rumors going around what he’s done to you, I … I …”