Hunters and Gatherers (18 page)

“I’ve been to Boulder,” said Isis.

“I’ve been to the Rebirth Center,” Hegwitha said. “They have superfabulous hot springs.”

“Yes,” said Rita. “Our people hold such springs sacred to Mother Earth and Changing Woman.”

“Changing Woman!” said Diana. “Changing Woman’s a Navajo goddess. I thought you said you were Yaqui.”

Patiently, Rita repeated herself. “I have studied the lore and legends of all our Native peoples.”

“Of course,” said Isis. “Well! Excuse us a moment. We need to get some things from our car.”

“Need help?” offered Rita.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Starling.

“We travel light,” said Isis.

“Good,” said Rita. “Ancient hunter-gatherer people always traveled light.”

“Hunter-gatherers!” Isis brightened. “I think about them all the time.”

Rita watched the Goddess women till they disappeared around the side of the van, where they huddled, out of sight.

“I don’t get it,” said Isis. “Maria had my phone number. It is just
so
unprofessional…”

“What saddens me,” said Bernie, “is that this is a woman doing this to other women, making promises and not keeping them because she’s gotten a better offer—”

“I don’t know about
better offer
,” said Isis. “Earth Sisters Week is a ton of work for hardly any money. I can’t
fathom
why they didn’t call me. I helped
found
that goddamn conference.”

“All right,” said Starling. “The question is: What now? Not only did we get the wrong vehicle, we got the wrong medicine woman. There must be some recourse, something we can do, even if it means lawyers and suing the ass off these shitheads.”

“Outstanding!” said Sonoma.

“Can’t you see it on
People’s Court
?” said Joy. “Today we hear the case of the Goddess priestesses versus Canyon Country Travel and two Native American healers.”

“Who says Rita’s a healer?” said Freya. “It’s not clear that she has any bona fide credentials whatever. Anyone can hang out a shingle and call herself a medicine woman.”

“She taught at the Rebirth Center,” said Hegwitha.

“So she claims,” said Starling.

“Ladies,” said Isis. “Concentrate. We have a crisis to resolve.”

“Gee, it’s hot,” said Bernie.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Freya.

“I agree,” said Titania. “We’ve got a stand-in medicine woman—and this place is a dump. I didn’t pay hundreds of dollars to vacation in a camper in Death Valley. Do we know if there’s air conditioning? We’ll fry in those little tin cans.”

Sonoma said, “We’ll cook like microwave popcorn.”

“What we have to remember,” said Isis, “is that this is not about whether Four Feathers or Tucson has the softest beds.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Titania. “I’m not
that
shallow, Isis.”

“I realize that,” said Isis. “We have to address the fact that some of us want to leave and others want to stay, and what I think I’m hearing is a big undecided middle. Are we going to write this off as a dead loss—another case of white liberals being ripped off by people of color who can hardly be blamed for wanting to repay us for centuries of oppression? I mean: Maria’s no-show seems minor compared to Little Big Horn. Let’s call it a teaching lesson about politics and history—”

“Herstory,” corrected Starling.

“Whatever,” Isis said. “Or are we going to trust the journey itself and see why the Goddess has sent Rita instead of Maria.”

“The Goddess?” said Titania. “For all we know, Maria got some cousin to put on a headband and come here and play shaman.”

Bernie said, “Are we sure we’ll get anything to eat?”

“I’m starved,” said Sonoma.

“Dear,” said Freya. “You ate an entire bag of cookies in the van.”

“You had cookies and didn’t share?” Joy said. “Oh, Sonoma, you creep!”

Isis said, “I don’t know. I keep thinking about all those stories in which the Buddha comes to the door dressed as a beggar. How do we know if the real teacher is Maria—or Rita?”

“The Buddha was a man,” Joy said. “That was a really male trip: sending some psycho to your door and then saying you’re not going to find enlightenment because you didn’t invite him in. What sane woman
would
invite him in?”

Diana said, “Who needs Rita? We could just be here in the desert. It’s fine with me if Rita splits and leaves us alone for five days.”

“Five days!” Titania groaned.

“That’s a lifetime,” said Martha despairingly.

“Seriously,” said Bernie. “Nourishment is central. Is there food here or not? It’s miles back to the 7-11. Is there even a phone?”

“I see phone lines,” observed Sonoma, for which Isis rewarded her with a sweetly approving smile.

“Isis is right,” said Diana. “This is all about trusting the Goddess. It’s wrong to privilege one medicine woman or one tribe over another.”

“That’s right,” said Hegwitha. “Just because Maria is the superstar medicine woman and Rita is the warm-up act. Goddess religion is not supposed to be a hierarchy of main attractions versus openers. It’s about the wisdom of all women, and if Rita says she’s a teacher and healer…I’m sure she has something to teach us because of who she is and where she lives.”

“Where
does
she live?” said Freya. “Do we know? Her ancestral tribal home may be a…trailer park in Muskogee.”

“As opposed to what, Freya?” said Starling. “A mansion in Palm Beach?”

“Mom’s real problem is that Rita’s fat,” said Sonoma. “Mom can’t imagine learning from someone who isn’t rich and skinny.”

“Overweight is a major health issue for Native Americans,” said Bernie. “Genetically, they were never meant to subsist on the white man’s lousy beer-and-balloon-bread diet.”

“Trailer parks can be sacred spaces,” Hegwitha pointed out.

“Hegwitha’s right,” Isis said uncertainly.

“If she lives in a trailer park,” said Joy, “it’s because the white man’s put her there.”

“Perhaps,” said Titania. “But I’m not sure the solution is moving into the trailer park
with
her.”

“Oh, look, here’s Rita!” cried Martha, who had just spotted Rita advancing like a ship gliding into port.

“Dinnertime!” trilled Rita, trying to sound hospitable, despite the chill, paranoid twinkle glinting in her eyes. “You ladies must be starving. I bet you could eat a buffalo. But first we have to kill it.” She gave a fierce little bark of a laugh, and the women smiled unhappily.

Motioning for them to follow, Rita headed back to the trailer.

“Well, Bernie, it looks like there’s food,” said Titania. “You were so upset about that.”

“Wait a minute,” said Joy. “I wish we knew how literally she meant that about killing the buffalo. C’mon, ladies, you’ve read those books where someone goes to live with Native healers and the first thing they’re asked to do is help butcher a bison.”

“Fabulous,” said Titania. “I can just see myself filleting buffalo steaks.”

“I don’t know,” said Isis. “That could be a lesson.”

“Taking a life?” said Diana. “And eating it?”

Isis said, “That’s how Native people lived. Why privilege vegetarians?”

“When I was a girl,” said Freya, “I often helped my mother and sisters kill chickens and even pigs.”

“Totally gross,” said Sonoma. “No wonder you’re so fucked up about food.”

“Sonoma, please,” said Freya. “I’ve begged you not to talk that way.”

“Why not?” said Sonoma. “Everyone else does.”

“You’re a child,” said Freya.

“Oh yeah, really, Mom,” said Sonoma.

Hesitantly they followed Rita around the trailer to a sandy patio under a trellis made from wood slats that cast pretty patterned shadows on the picnic table and benches. The air smelled appetizingly of charcoal and salty fried food.

“The ramada,” Rita said.

“The ramada,” Bernie repeated.

The table was set with Mexican earthenware bowls, from which a mahogany-colored stew sent up wisps of steam. On the ground, over a fire, oil bubbled in an iron caldron that Rita bent over, poking at a defenseless round fritter.

“Her Indian name,” Titania whispered, “is Eats High Cholesterol Diet.”

The tiny shed in which the dogs had been shut seemed to be howling and rocking, like the witch in Russian fairy tales disguised as a walking hut.

“Inhumane,” said Diana.

“Tomorrow’s dinner,” said Joy.

“Shut up,” Diana said.

“Navajo fry bread and chili,” Rita explained. “I hope you ladies eat meat. The life of our Native people was very much about hunting and thanking the spirits of the four-legged ones who give of themselves so freely so that two-leggeds can live.”

“Right,” said Joy. “Thanks a bundle, dead animal friends.”

“Oh,” Isis said. “It must be thrilling to live so close to the ancient hunter-gatherer ways.”

“Those are our Grandfather ways,” Rita said proprietarily.

“And Grand
mother
ways,” said Diana.

Suddenly Rita dipped her head and put her fists over her ears. “Thank you, Great Spirit, for our food. Thank you, Earth, our Mother. Thank you, spirit of Brother Deer, for giving so freely of yourself so that we may live. Amen.”

“Blessed be,” said the women.

“That’s what we say in Goddess religion,” said Starling. “We say ‘Blessed be.’”

“Eat!” Rita tore off a section of fry bread and used it to throttle a thick chunk of stew.

Several women did the same, though more gingerly and with less gusto. Martha tasted a cube of meat and some gravy-soaked fry bread—delicious!

Half the group were vegetarians, but one by one they started eating the fry bread and chili. Isis, Joy, Hegwitha, and Diana were the last to surrender, and they compromised, mopping up sauce and avoiding the meat with surgical precision.

“What kind of meat is this?” said Starling.

“Venison,” said Rita.

“Bambi,” said Diana. But even she kept taking dainty nibbles of bread and gravy.

“Ha ha, Bambi,” Rita said.

“Did one of your hunters shoot it?” said Bernie.

“It’s roadkill,” explained Rita. “We found it on the road.”

Everything stopped. The women looked at her.

Rita wasn’t joking.

“Roadkill!” said Joy. “Are you telling us that we’re fucking eating roadkill?”

“This is a sacred space,” Rita reminded her. “We do not use white man’s filthy sex talk here.”

“You’re joking,” Isis said. “About the roadkill, I mean. We agree about the language. Sorry.”

“I’m not joking,” Rita said. “It is very important in our Native culture not to waste the earth’s bounty. White people think they can kill for pleasure or sport, but Native Americans believe there is only one kind of killing. It’s an insult to let our animal teachers waste their lives for nothing. There is good and bad roadkill. We have learned to tell how—and when—a creature’s spirit left its body. We will not take anything that’s been dead longer than a chicken goes unrefrigerated on the way to your supermarket.”

Had Rita imagined that she could get ten women from the Upper West Side cheerfully eating roadkill? Martha considered Rita’s point—did it matter how animals died? Hunger made it easier to see things Rita’s way. The stew glistened invitingly, a lacquery reddish brown. Bambi’s spirit could have left its body after the gentlest fender-tap, and its corpse could have rolled to the side of the road, pristine and not run over. But why had Rita told the truth? Admitted it was roadkill? She couldn’t have thought she was making their meal more attractive to eat. Maybe Rita was seeing how far they would go: testing the limits of their fear, obedience, and politeness.

“Actually,” Joy said, “this may be ecologically far-out. I heard a story on NPR about a food bank in Montana that feeds thousands of homeless daily on what they scrape off the road.”

“Get away!” said Sonoma. “No way I’m going to eat this shit. It’s like so racist to expect us to eat this crap just because she’s Native American and we have to be polite.”

“Sonoma,” said Bernie, “Rita’s our host. You can’t be rude to her just because her culture differs from ours.”

“Bullshit,” said Sonoma.

In the ensuing silence Freya announced, “At least Sonoma’s found something she won’t eat.” Isis said, “Freya! She’s a child!”

Sonoma said, “You’re a real bitch, Mom. You know that?” Everyone put down their forks. Now they could stop eating and pretend that it was not from squeamishness about roadkill, but because they’d been robbed of their appetites by a mother-daughter squabble. Martha saw Isis smiling beatifically at Sonoma.

“Eat up, ladies,” said Rita. “Soon we will have fasting.”

“I take it back,” whispered Titania. “It looks like there
isn’t
food.”

“How soon?” said Diana.

Rita ignored the question. “Before we go on our vision quest, we will fast to purify our bodies and rid ourselves of toxic impurities to make our spirit helpers welcome.”

“A vision quest?” Diana pushed her plate away. “Great!”

“Shit,” said Joy. “I thought we’d settled this.”

Isis said, “Maria didn’t mention a vision quest.”

“Yes,” Rita insisted. “Maria does vision quest. She does sweat lodge. She does dream work and Talking Stick and drumming and spirit dance intensive.”

“Sweat lodge,” said Titania. “Marvelous. I could go for a sauna right now.”

“The planet’s a sauna right now,” said Joy. “Where we’re sitting is a sauna. I thought part of the sweat-lodge thing was an icy stream or cool air outside.”

“At night,” said Rita, “we will have sweat lodge. Then the desert will be plenty chilly.”

“Brr,” said Bernie.

“Desert ways are tricky,” Rita said. “Like Coyote. Always giving with one hand and taking back with the other. But Mother Earth is different. Giving and giving and giving. Native lore is about the difference between Coyote and Mother Earth.”

“Like the difference between Demeter and the male sky god,” suggested Hegwitha.

“Okay,” Rita said. “Now we go to our rooms. Then we come back out when it’s cooler for Native storytelling and dancing.”

Rita directed them toward the cabins and retreated to her trailer. Each woman dived for her luggage and scrambled for a cabin, although there were ten women and five identical cabins. The haste, the edge of panic reminded Martha of grade-school fire drills when screaming teachers and clanging bells whipped them into a frenzy in which they each had to pick a partner and walk, don’t run, to the nearest exit. How unlike the orderly grace with which the Goddess women once moved as a group, dividing into smaller units and separating from the larger crowd of women on the beach that first weekend on Fire Island.