Body and Bread (14 page)

Cyril said it was a Marcos point. “The core,” he said, “is the piece you hit with a stone hammer, and the flake is the piece that comes off.” He showed me some flakes he’d just found. Women, he said, cooked, cut leather, carved wood; so, yes, surely they must have also made arrowheads. He wrote a description of my Marcos in his notebook then told me to keep it.

That night, I gave it to my father, who took it to his office on Monday. I showed him the midden the next weekend. He squatted, inspecting our excavation, the rocks we’d left behind. “If Sam didn’t notify the authorities,” he said, his arms opening over the mound, “he’s stolen from his own heritage.” Half of me was hurt for Sam—I never told him about it—while the other was impressed that my father recognized our connection to these early Americans.

C
HAPTER 9

1964

I
FOUND A NEWSPAPER ARTICLE
about the lynching. The murdered man’s name had been Gregorio Diaz. The story said he’d waded across the Rio Grande the year before and then lived on the streets, a “transient.” My father was right: Someone killed a farmer, his wife and two children. Even though Mr. Diaz was wearing the farmer’s overalls—the name printed inside in ink—he claimed two men had given him the clothes. Once the sheriff had arrested all three, a crowd of one thousand gathered, prompting a deputy to hide the prisoners in an upstairs courtroom. My grandfather, a minister, and the newspaper publisher took turns standing on the balcony, trying to calm the mob. Men with rifles forcibly took Mr. Diaz, so the sheriff let the other two run down the back steps. As my father had said, after the hanging someone found the farmer’s wedding ring in the pocket of Mr. Diaz’ overalls. I recognized two names in the story—my grandfather’s and the publisher’s—but the fact that they’d tried to stop the lynching didn’t alleviate my suspicion. If my grandfather later took the body, was he the “someone” who’d claimed to find the ring?

People of the Clovis culture were thought to be the first inhabitants of North America. Until recently, the standard theory was that they crossed the land bridge over the Bering Strait from Siberia to Alaska during the Ice Age period of lowered sea levels, then made their way southward through an ice-free corridor east of the Rocky Mountains into present-day western Canada as the glaciers retreated. In 2000, working with three archeologists from Texas A&M University, I recovered over 74,000 pieces of debitage and over 1,300 artifacts, mostly Clovis, at the Gault site near several springs in Central Texas. First investigated in 1929, the site had almost been destroyed over the subsequent six decades by relic hunters. But in 2001, at the Debra L. Friedkin site in Buttermilk Creek, Texas, we uncovered artifacts that pre-date the Clovis by 2,500 years.

The way some boys become obsessed with car models or Civil War battles, I memorized the names of Texas Indian tribes, their diets, tools, rituals. Casual remarks at school or the dinner table elicited details about the sixteenth-century Coahuiltecans as recorded in the journals of Cabeza de Vaca, or the Tonkawas,
tickanwatics,
as they called themselves,
the most human of people.
I used tribal behaviors to illustrate facts during history and government classes. The Choctaw and Cherokee immigrated from the East, and—surprise!—the Cherokee tried to help throw off Mexican rule during the Texas Revolution. During English, I wrote essays based on accounts by soldiers, missionaries, explorers. The children of a married Tonkawa couple, I noted, belonged to the mother’s clan, which meant that, to them, men and women were equal. Parents, I added, did not spank their children. Shamans took care of the sick, rubbing the skin with medicines, calling the gods for a cure. Spirits of the dead became owls and wolves, which made me wonder if a farm owl could’ve been Antonín Cervenka. When I told my father that reservations were like concentration camps, he said, “Check out Sam Houston’s involvement. Otis used to tell stories you might run across.” The history teacher invited my parents for a conference. My mother told what happened while she drove us downtown to a shoe sale.

“She thinks we should find you a special tutor.”

“She said that?” Working with an ethnographer was suddenly all I cared about. “What’d you say?”

“She said she didn’t know anyone.”

“Can’t you check around?”

“I’m proud of you, Sarah, but tutors are expensive, and the whole thing sounds extreme, if you ask me.”

I clutched the dashboard, turned toward her. “Mom, please. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t try to find somebody.” She pressed the lighter to her cigarette. “But I can’t imagine who that’d be.” As the car filled with smoke, I lowered my window.

My father asked me to stay after supper as Hugh thumped up the stairs. My mother sat looking sidelong at him, then loaded plates and silverware into the dishwasher. Water sprayed into the sink.

My father linked his fingers, leaned back. “Have you thought about a college and a major?”

As I suspected, this was going to be my rite-of-passage chat. Kurt and Sam had had theirs the spring semesters of their junior years. I believed they’d give good advice. Not only had my father counseled patients and given speeches at high school graduations, his questions and proverbs, although frustrating, had introduced complexity and its rewards. “Don’t think about education as something you
have
to do,” he’d say. “Learning should be a pleasure.” I hoped they’d know which schools specialized in ethnography. Anthropology was supposed to be a popular major. “What do you and Mama think?”

“Your mother’s always dreamed of you going to a girls’ school. You’ve worked hard, you’ve earned it.”

“Why a girls’ school?”

The spraying stopped. The dishwasher door clicked shut. “Because girls are appreciated there,” my mother said, sitting. She wiped her forehead with a cup towel. “Since you’ve had to grow up with these monkeys, a girls’ school could show you what you’ve missed.” She folded the towel, hugged herself.

Kurt was following their prescribed path to Latimore Memorial. Sam had resisted and was studying Russian literature, not knowing or caring what he’d eventually do. Now it was my turn. The result of this conversation would dictate the rest of my life. “Are you worried that I act like a boy?”

“What a silly…of course not,” my mother said. “Just think of it as a house full of sisters.”

“Great. More gossip. Can’t wait.” The dishwasher hummed. “I don’t need to have sisters to find out about being a girl.”

“What are you talking about? That’s exactly why you—”

“What if I don’t want to go there?”

My father cleared his throat, walked to the sink. “Then we won’t make you,” he said. He filled a glass with water. “But would you visit one?”

“If I have to.”

“Wonderful,” my mother said. “You’ll see; everyone’s just like you.”

“Apply to at least three places,” my father said. “Talk to your counselor. But what should you study? You’ve always done well in science.”

“You, of all people,” my mother turned to him, “know how badly they treat women. Besides, Sarah’s life doesn’t have to be that complicated.”

“You’re right.” He nodded. “If she left, it wouldn’t be fair to the boy who could’ve had her spot.” He drank, watching my face. “What do you think of nursing?”

“Nurses are important, but isn’t it like being a maid?”

He flinched. “Nurses are indispensable, and the profession happens to be...”

“Good,” my mother interrupted. “You’re not the thermometer and squeaky shoes type.” She squeezed my hand.

I didn’t know how to respond to what seemed like insults. How could my parents be so wrong? I pulled my hand loose and swirled my finger in a congealed gravy puddle, squashing bits of roast, pepper.

“Okay, then anthropology,” my father said. He returned to his chair at the end of the table. “Isn’t that what her history teacher recommended?”

Finally, I thought, my stomach unknotting. “I’ve always—”

“Yes, but—” my mother interrupted. She waved a hand at my father, shook her head.

“She should choose something she excels in,” he said, “and Sarah is an exceptional student.” He faced me. “What’s your favorite subject?”

“I’ve
always
wanted to study ethnography. You know that.”

“What in the world?” my mother asked. “Is that some kind of water science?”

“Didn’t Mrs. Sconstance explain it?”

“Oh, that,” she said. “Have you thought about what it would mean? Traveling to God-forsaken places, primitive conditions. It’s just not normal. Trust me, life is hard enough.”

“Now, Mama,” my father said, “you’re better at these kinds of questions than I am, but she seems genuinely interested in the field. Don’t you think she could make it work?”

“Are you prepared to risk your only daughter’s future?” She wiped her nose with a napkin. “We have a responsibility, and more than anything else I want her to be happy.”

“But Mother,” I pleaded, “we’re not the same person. This really
is
what I want.”

“Diseases,” she said, “no stability.” She blew her nose. “Owen?”

“Can we agree,” he said, looking at me, “that this needs more discussion?” He glanced at her as she put her hands in her lap. “Do we have to decide this tonight?”

“Could we at least think of some options,” she said, her chin quivering, “just in case?”

He looked at me then back at my mother, and she nodded. “I don’t see how that can hurt. After all, events are only the shells of ideas.” He rubbed his palm down the side of his face. “Let’s say, Sarah, that, hypothetically of course, you had a second interest. If you did, and only if you’re comfortable sharing it, what do you think that would be?”

“Haven’t a clue,” I said, this time dipping two fingers in the gravy puddle. The people who claimed to know me best apparently didn’t know me at all.

“We’ve heard about your first choice, and I don’t want you to feel pressured. This is certainly your decision; we’re only here to give advice.” He held his chin. “But what about a degree in education?” he asked hopefully. “You could go anywhere with that.”

“Anywhere,” my mother said, folding her napkin. She put it in her skirt pocket. “And she’d have something she could always fall back on.”

“Besides,” my father winked, trying to lighten the tension, “teachers make good whistle bait.”

I placed my palm in the gravy and pressed until liquid oozed out. My hand,
me
, I thought. Neither of my parents saw as I reached and flattened it again, this time against my mother’s seersucker shoulder.

During one
Mexihcayōtl
festival, women made
ātōlli
, a thick maize gruel, poured it into gourd bowls, and let it cool until, records state, “it spread quivering.” The congealing gruel and human flesh were thought to be the same, a Eucharistic demonstration of consubstantiation. When parents then feasted and encouraged their children to eat with them, no one was surprised later when a sacrificed
īxīptla’s
thigh bone was shared. How responsible is a parent for the adult child’s decisions?

C
HAPTER 10

I
N ORDER TO LOWER
his tax liability when Gran died, Dad signed a disclaimer refusing acceptance of the Rockport summerhouse, so that property came directly to us. Sam and Terezie didn’t know this, since Sam died a few months later and Gran’s estate was never closed. They did know that Dad would leave us equal ownership of the farm. In other words, Sam’s scrawled message bequeathed to Terezie not only his share of the farm, which she now expects, but also his portion of my grandparents’ coastal property, valued recently at above a million dollars.

“If you bring yours, I’ll bring mine,” I say to Kurt when he phones, “and I don’t think you want that.” I pinch the inside of my arm.

“The hearing’s day after tomorrow, which means you’re going to have to grow up, Sarah. Instead of being the problem, help us solve one for a change.”

“I tell you what,” I say, relieved by his usual candor. “I’ll help you fight Sam’s will if you’ll come without your lawyer.”

“Terezie’s bringing hers.”

“Cyril may be a lawyer,” I say, “but he’s also a friend. I suspect he’ll be more accommodating if you approach him from that second position.”

“Don’t be stupid. That hearing’s his way of showing how devoted he is.”

“Then what do you want?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to try to persuade Cyril to cancel the hearing?”

“The only way we won’t have that hearing is if Terezie signs the agreement.”

“That’s my point. Who’s she going to do that for? Us or an attorney?”

Cyril meets us in his office lobby on the top floor of a downtown bank building. It’s the last chance to avoid a probate hearing over Sam’s will. He’s wearing black Tony Lama boots with a navy cotton suit and a bolo tie. “Sarah,” he says, surprisingly animated, “it’s been too long.” We shake hands; then he does the same with Hugh and Kurt. “Terezie’s already here. This way, at the end of the hall.”