Whirligig (6 page)

He sat down. He decided to do without the wing. The figure could simply be a harp player. The harp was full-sized, the sort you'd find in an orchestra. Lea had played in an orchestra. He wondered what her instrument was. He sawed off the rest of the wing, sanded the wood, then went to his pack and dug out his five tubes of acrylic paint. In the trash can he found a styrofoam cup, which he filled with water for cleaning his brushes. From the same source he retrieved a paper plate to use as a palette. He painted one side of the figure, let it dry a bit, then leaned it on a stone and painted the other, making her hair black rather than the yellow prescribed by the book. Down one side he printed Lea's name with a black permanent marker, then used it and his tape measure to draw the harp strings. He considered his work. It wasn't perfect, especially the outline of the face. It looked nothing like her picture. He repainted the mouth, but only made matters worse. The two sides should have been identical, but weren't. It was the best he could do. He stopped and ate lunch.

All afternoon was spent on Lea's propeller-shaped arms. He'd begun referring to the whirligig by her name and almost felt he was reassembling her broken body, reviving her. Each arm required much whittling and sanding. Suddenly he was halted by the strangeness of his task. He saw it as his parents had. “Why am I doing this?” he said aloud. The whole enterprise seemed taken from a dream, incomprehensible in the light of day.

He returned to work. What he knew without question was that it felt good to be busy toiling in atonement, to direct his feelings outward through his arms and knife, as if draining an abscess. Now and then his eyes crossed Puget Sound to the Olympic range and settled on the peak the cyclist had told him was Mount Olympus. The home of the Greek gods, Brent mused. Hadn't Hercules likewise performed his labors to cleanse himself of a crime? From Miss Lifton's class, in his previous life, the story returned to him while he worked, of the Greek hero slaying his wife and children in a fit of insanity, his asking an oracle how he could atone, her telling him to seek out a certain king and perform for him twelve labors. His tasks had been just as bizarre as Brent's and likewise had called for long journeys.

Brent worked until late. He cut his hand three different times and suspected that part of him wasn't content with the labors he'd been assigned and longed to mete out more punishment. He laid out the whirligig's various parts and set them shining with a thick coat of varnish. Lea's eyes glistened as if she'd awakened. Finally, he put down his tools, built a fire, and warmed another can of soup.

He returned to work early the next morning. Bent over his book like a biblical scholar, mumbling, rereading, receiving sudden insights, he carefully mounted the arms on the figure. The placement was tricky. He tried to figure out why one arm didn't spin and adjusted it endlessly. Next he agonized over the figure's pivot point, marked the spot, drilled the hole, and hoped for the best. He pounded some tubing into the hole. He slipped this over a piece of dowel. The figure turned smoothly from side to side. He glued the dowel into a chunk of two-by-four he found along the shore. He tingled. He realized he was finished. He blew upon it. The arms pinwheeled, seeming to strum the harp strings. He could hardly believe it actually worked. He blew fifty more times for confirmation.

He now wondered where to set it up. Was it illegal to mount it on state land? Then again, the park belonged to the public. Better here than in someone's front yard. He'd have to hope the harpist so charmed the rangers that they wouldn't remove it. How to mount it was a further problem. He hadn't brought ten-foot poles in his pack. He paced the site, deliberating. Then he spied a tree limb, roughly horizontal, open to the wind from the west and high enough to keep his work out of reach. He climbed out and nailed down the driftwood mount. Then he returned for the whirligig.

Back on the ground, he stared up at it. The harp player was just over a foot tall and seemed much smaller from a distance. Brent awaited a breeze until his neck ached. When it came, the figure felt it first. It swung on the dowel like a weathervane. The arms lifted, then trembled. Then spun. He felt the breeze. The arms gained speed. His smile widened. The phrase “the breath of life” traveled through his mind. He watched, mesmerized. Then he ran for the camera.

Miami, Florida

Still dark outside. No traffic. Just me. This is how I like it.
Muy tranquilo.

I never saw a street-sweeper machine in my life until I came from Puerto Rico. The first week here, it woke me up. I was eleven. I thought it was a monster. Then I looked out the window and saw it pass. I saw the man inside. I wondered what he thinks about, driving all night in the dark, alone. And now
I'm
driving a street-sweeper. Maybe the same one. And now I know what the driver thinks. Watching the curb. Watching parked cars. Looking down at the gutter broom. Thinking when to use the sprayer. Thinking about other times in my life. Enjoying the peaceful night.

Peace is a very hard thing to find. The Pope is always asking for peace. He tells all the countries to stop their wars. Every year he tells them, but more wars always come. Always people disagree and fight.

I think about why this is while I drive. I think about the shearwater bird.

It's March. Still cool at night. Like Puerto Rico, in the mountains, where I lived. The air was cool there. Life was more calm. For a while, anyway. Then my father had to sell our farm to a power company. Lots of families had to. They covered our farm with water to make a lake, to make electricity. Many people there were angry. My family left the mountains, where we'd always lived.

We moved to San Juan, on the coast. San Juan is a very big city. There were five children in my family. People laughed at how we talked. Boys fought me. Some people laughed at my father's straw hat. Many times I heard my father and mother argue. Other people argued against the government. Some wanted Puerto Rico to join the United States. Others wanted it to be its own country. Others wanted it to be something else. All were fighting against each other. One day a bomb went off near our house. I ran to see. Then I wish I didn't. I saw a man lying down in his own blood. One month later we flew in a plane to Miami.

No one in my family spoke English. In the mountains there was only Spanish. In school here I listened to the teacher but I didn't understand anything. I would look a long time at her ring and her necklace and her shoes and at other students and out the window. That's all I did that first year. The next year I went to junior high. There was lots to look at in woodworking class. But my teacher got mad when I didn't look at him. He asked me a question one time. I didn't know what he said, so I didn't say anything back. His face got red. He ran up to my chair. Then he grabbed my hair and lifted me up and yelled some words right in my face. I hated that teacher. He didn't know Spanish. When he let me go I swore at him in Spanish. Then I ran out of the room and went home.

Next week, they made me take a test. Then they said I could move to a different school. I was glad. Then I went there. It was a school for retarded children. That's where they put kids who didn't know English. I told my father I wouldn't go. He said school in America makes your life better. We had lots of arguments. I pretended to go, but instead I would walk around or go to the park to watch the tennis players. When I was fourteen, I got a job in a restaurant when I was supposed to be in school. I brought home the money and gave it to my father. I knew he needed it, for the rent. He took it. I quit pretending to go to school after that.

In the restaurant I worked the dishwasher machine. Everyone spoke Spanish. I liked it there. The waitresses all called me Flaco because I was skinny. They used to bring me food. It was a good job. But people argued there too. There were two cooks. One from Puerto Rico. He only liked Puerto Rican salsa music. Willie Colón was his favorite. He brought in tapes of Willie Colón's band and would hit the spatula on the grill like a drum. The other cook was from Jamaica. He only liked reggae. On weekends, there was a third cook, from Cuba. They used to fight over the tape player. Not even the Pope could stop this war.

Four years I worked there. Then the restaurant closed. I got a job in a different restaurant. Many people spoke English there. I learned how to speak from them. Constancia was one of the waitresses. Eighteen years old, also from Puerto Rico. She was so beautiful that everyone gave her big tips. Some she would give to the dishwasher and busboys. She always gave more to me than to the others. We became engaged. Then we got married. That was a very happy time. We lived with her mother. Constancia was not only beautiful but very kind, very good. Every day I told myself that I was lucky.

I went to class at night to learn English better, to get a better job. English is very strange. You chop a tree
down,
then you chop it
up. Muy loco.
I filled out a form and got a job with the city, fixing holes in the street. Much more money than from the restaurant. We had a party to celebrate. At the party, Constancia announced that she was pregnant. Her mother, my mother, my father, everyone was very happy for us.

Down that street, to the right, at the red light, is the hospital where the baby was born. A very beautiful little girl. Everyone loved her very much. Constancia stopped work in the restaurant to stay home with the baby. She was a very good mother. When the baby was just one year old, it got a cold. This cold got worse. Then it went into the baby's lungs. It kept coughing and sweating. And then it died.

After this, Constancia changed. She didn't go back to work in the restaurant. She missed the baby very much. Instead of hearing the baby's voice, she turned on the TV and let it talk all day long. When she watched, her eyes didn't move. Her face was like one of the statues in church.

One year later, we had another baby. This time a boy. We named him Raul. This time Constancia was different. Instead of laughing and smiling at the baby, she was worried all the time. She was afraid he would get sick, like the first baby. Raul learned how to crawl and started putting everything in his mouth. Every day Constancia would mop the floor and vacuum the rug. She bought a special spray to kill germs. She sprayed it on his toys and the TV and the furniture. In summer, red dust falls on Miami. People say it's from the desert in Africa, that the wind blows it across the ocean. Constancia was afraid it would bring bad diseases. She went to a
botánica
and bought special candles and statues of saints and prayers to hang over Raul's crib.

When Raul was four Constancia's grandmother and grandfather came from Puerto Rico to live in our house. All day the grandfather played dominoes in our kitchen with the man next door and argued about politics. He also liked to watch soccer on TV. His hearing was bad, so the TV had to be loud. The grandmother was always telling Constancia how to take care of Raul. “Feed him more plantain, like in Puerto Rico. French fries are very bad for the stomach.” We taught Raul English, but the grandparents didn't like this. We talked to him in English. They talked to him in Spanish. Constancia's mother tried to keep everything peaceful. Impossible. It was like a war in our house.

One night on TV I saw a picture of a bird flying over the ocean. The announcer said this bird lives almost all its life on the ocean. He said it was called a shearwater. I wished that I could be that bird. Live alone, far away from land. No other birds around. Very peaceful.

I had a cousin in New Jersey. He moved in with us. Seventeen years old. Constancia's mother wanted him to leave. He was always playing rock and roll on the radio. He stayed out at night, very late. I saved enough money for a car. The first time he drove it he had an accident. We had a big argument about it. Then I lost my job. All day I was home with Raul. I tried to play with him. Constancia wouldn't let him play in the street or even on the sidewalk. He couldn't ride in the car unless he wore a special charm around his neck. I looked for a job, but couldn't find anything. Our money got very low. Constancia started bringing in money by taking care of babies for women who worked. First it was two babies. Then three. Then five. There was always a baby crying. And the grandparents yelling. And the TV loud. And rock and roll loud. Everybody arguing. One morning, very early, before it was light, I got in the car and drove. Not driving to look for a job. Just driving.

I got out of Miami. Drove through the Everglades. Very peaceful. I rolled down the windows. It felt great. I drove two hours, across to the Gulf. I parked at a beach. I walked out, watched the waves. No one was there. A little breeze off the water. Very quiet. Very nice.

After a while I got hungry. I got back in the car and drove farther. I came to a town. I walked out on the pier. Nailed to the wall of a restaurant was a little marching band made of wood. An arrow under it pointed to the front door and said “March On In.” I went in and ate breakfast. Then I walked to the end of the pier. It was still early and cool. I saw people getting on a fishing boat. Then I remembered the shearwater bird. I'd been thinking about it for months. They said you couldn't see it from land. You'd have to go on a boat. I asked the captain if he'd ever seen one. He said all the time. I told him I didn't want to fish. I only wanted to see a shearwater. He let me on for half price.