I STOOD BY THE EDGE OF MY BED AND WATCHED THE stars outside the door shift in the sky and, with no conscious thought to do it, found myself at the front door, looking out. Outside the door was a sleeping porch the length of the apartment, where Neffie was asleep on a low single bed below the sill of the screens that surrounded the porch, and beyond I saw the earth slip away as the city, once set into the canyon side, slowly lifted and rose into the night sky, like a hot air balloon.
I felt a tug on my arm and looked over at Neffie, who was standing by me now and had wrapped her arm into mine.
“We’re flying,” I said.
She looked at me curiously and said nothing for a moment. Then she looked out the door and back to me.
“Flying?”
I looked out the door again and all was normal. What had been exhilarating a second ago was now terrifying. I was sure I had seen the whole town lift off from the ground. Now it was obviously not so. Was I losing my mind?
“It looked like we were flying, like the city had lifted into the sky and was moving up into the stars.”
“Well then, it’s landed,” she said.
This remark so drew me to Neffie that I stared at her, awestruck with adoration. She could have said so many
things, things like “There, there, you must be feeling a little weak from your accident” or “are you crazy?” or even “yeah, right,” but she said, “it’s landed.” She said this because of the abiding respect and love she had native to her, a grace accepting all around her on whatever terms they presented themselves. Not only was the remark supremely loving, it was also supremely confident, secure. Neffie came into my heart and feelings the way the songs on the tape had come into my musical soul, unexpected and inspiring. Then I felt the pain in my legs.
It was not the kind of gnawing pain you would expect from broken bones—more a gentle ache, like a sore muscle from exercise—but I wanted to sit down. I made my way to the bed Neffie had been sleeping on and sat on the edge. Neffie sat next to me.
Outside the sun was rising and the day fast approaching. I could see the city clearly now, if a city it was. We were set at the topmost level of a staircase of dwellings. In each direction the city stretched for about a quarter of a mile, built against the western side of a north-south canyon wall. The city was a series of conterminous apartments, the largest along the bottom row and the smallest along the top, all connected by a series of stairs and walkways along the outer edges. Everything seemed to be made of adobe, but was not in the usual run-down and dusty state of old adobe houses. There was a newness and well-built quality to this structure, giving it a solid, almost rocklike nature. The windows began to shine with bits of light from electric lamps turned in on many of the apartments, chasing away the remnant darkness of the night. People coming out of the apartments began traveling up and down the steps and along the walkways,
greeting each other familiarly, quietly, with nods and the occasional brush of hand upon hand.
I noticed the similarity of the people to Neffie. These were not typical of the native American. That beautiful copper skin and shiny black hair were nowhere present. Instead the people were all tall, with light- and dark-tanned skin, and most of them had light-colored hair, in varying lengths and styles. The most striking feature of these people was their eyes, almond-shaped, slightly Oriental, in the most vivid colors. Blue-green, gray with dark-gray outlines, vivid dark-blues, piercing emeralds and purple sapphires. I recognized one of the people walking toward us as the man that had sat by my bedside during one of the preceding nights.
He came to the doorway and Neffie stood up. He had long hair, mostly gray now, but once the color of Neffie’s, sandy white.
“He’s up,” he said, looking at me as he came in through the door.
“This is LittleHorse,” Neffie said.
I tried to stand and found I could with little pain this time, but the splints on my legs had become cumbersome. LittleHorse steadied me.
“Welcome to Welach,” he said, pronouncing it Waylock. “You came in the hard way.”
“Thank you for all your help. I’m sorry to have stumbled in so …”
“We don’t get many visitors.” He turned to Neffie. “There’s a dance tonight. Be sure and bring him.” Then to me: “You will really enjoy it.”
He kissed Neffie on the cheek and walked out.
“My dad,” she said.
“Your dad?”
“I know, I know. I have two tiers of defense against unwitting intrusion. I never thought you would make it up here. First tier—the whole Zamora routine Li was running, and second tier—‘I’m a regular girl with an odd background.’ Most of it was true: Geneva, the modeling, college, UNM—not New York—except … LittleHorse is Pops.”
There was a thrill in all of this to me, the constant shifting reality, the discovery almost by the second of new things. I felt an unusual trust, and even though Neffie was telling me yet another explanation of her background, I did not feel misled. I felt as if I was being told more, the more I was being found trustworthy.
“And … what is this place?”
“Welach.” She spelled it for me. “Anasazi word for city set on the side of the canyon that’s really hard to find and be careful you don’t fall.”
She was deadpan.
“Getouttahere,” I said after a beat.
“I don’t know what it means. Welach, I guess, means the same thing as Denver or Miami except we don’t have an NFL franchise to give us a media identity.”
“Is this an old place, or … you know, it looks a little like Taos, or like the Gila cliff dwellings with electricity.”
“It’s quite old. It’s also wonderful. I lived here until I was fifteen or so.”
“Or so?”
“No birth records. No city hall—well, maybe Delilah’s.”
I straightened up a little on the bed. I was feeling quite
good. I stretched out my right hand and wiggled my fingers. Everything was working fine.
“But the state …”
“They don’t know we’re here. Don’t know about us at all.”
I stared.
“I know it’s hard to believe, but Welach has been here for thousands of years. Only a few of the Anasazi knew about it and none of the white settlers ever found it. A lot of the Indians know but they don’t tell. The closest was Billy the Kid, who hid out close to here and drew all the cops and press around. But nobody made it back up in here. Recently we’ve been getting a few high-tech hikers. Every two or three years one will wander into the lot outside of town where we keep some cars, but they never make it all the way back in here. Too hard. Usually one or two of us will scare them off of ‘private Indian land.’ You can’t find this place by looking. Not visible from the satellite spy cameras, not accessible to the average person. Not accessible to the extraordinary person. You want something to eat?”
“Starving.”
“Let’s go down to Delilah’s. Let me see you walk.”
I stood up and walked slowly around the room. Except for the splints that kept my knees from bending, I could move fine. The pain was gone.
“Let’s take those off,” Neffie said, and knelt on the floor beside me as she unwrapped the bandages around the splints.
Finally the sticks fell off and I was free. I bent my knees up and down as I walked around.
“How long have I been here?” I asked.
“Four days. Today’s the morning of the fifth.”
“Well, I feel great. What’s Delilah’s?”
“Local hang. Come on.”
Neffie took my hand and we walked out the door into a magnificent day. New Mexico skies are crystalline. I always feel as though I can see into outer space in the middle of the day. Usually, like this day, there are tufts of clouds across the blue. All in all a great place to be. This city, Neffie, the day, were making me giddy. I grinned a huge, idiot grin as we walked along.
The pathways along the outside of each level of apartments were about four- or five-feet wide. I could see down to a narrow valley floor and across to the other side of the canyon, which had no buildings. From here it was obvious why the city was not visible from the air. The canyon was a split in a huge plain, so the canyon walls extended down from it, below the plain. Along the top of each side of the walls was a ledge, an overhang of sorts, making it impossible to see into the canyon from above. Even standing on the plain itself one would have to walk almost to the edge of the chasm to be aware of the little canyon; and still, one could not see down into it until standing directly over it. The city was almost underground. In addition, the canyon was closed at each end by what must have once been huge cataracts. I understood how it had stayed hidden all this time.
I looked into the chambers as we passed by. They were simple rooms with simple furnishings. The most remarkable aspect was the art. Wall hangings, vases and pottery, rugs and sculpture. This was not a little town of poor natives but a prosperous, elegant town with inhabitants who obviously valued beauty and order. Yes, elegance was the word that came to mind, elegance in the mathematical sense, the simplest
and most direct solution to a problem. I wished for a camera, so lovely was all this to see.
“How many people live here?” I asked.
“Maybe six hundred. No one counts, but that seems about right.”
“And no one knows about it. You don’t pay taxes, don’t have government services … the things of a … you know … the economy of a city.”
“We have all we need. There aren’t many of us here. The town doesn’t grow at all. There are plenty of ways we contact the outside, but, no, we are hidden to the world.” Neffie and I came to one of the stairs that traversed between walkways and headed down. “When a child is born he or she stays here for the first fifteen years of their lives. Then, even if they leave, they stay close … but no one tells. No one from Welach spends too much time on the outside. It’s … I don’t know … crude.”
We had come to another apartment, and inside were many people sitting around tables. It was a large room with about fifteen various-sized tables, and several-dozen comfortable chairs set at random. Off to one side was something like a buffet with big coffee urns and some fruit and nuts and yogurt—at least that’s what it looked like to me. No one seemed to be having coffee and no one seemed to be doing much eating. They were sitting around the tables and talking, some were writing or studying from books, a few listening to headphones and personal stereos. Altogether very normal, altogether very strange. We walked in and sat at one of the tables. A beautiful lady approached.
“Hi Karen,” she said to Neffie.
“This is Nez,” Neffie said as she pointed to me.
I smiled and nodded, then said to Neffie, “Karen?”
“The nickname Lisa calls me. Karen LastHorse. What do you want to eat?”
“I don’t know. Bacon and eggs, whatever, steak and potatoes, avocado and sprouts, I … whatever you got.”
“Bring him some enchiladas with rice and beans.”
Lisa nodded then said to me, “How do you feel? I hear you took a fall.”
“Considering, I feel terrific. Thanks.”
“It will only get better,” she said, and walked away.
“Karen LastHorse?” I looked at Neffie.
“LittleHorse, LastHorse … it’s just a goof. We started calling each other that when we were kids. Lisa is not her name either.”
“What is?”
“I don’t know. Her mom was Cinderella, or something like that, and I …”
I suppressed a laugh. The situation was like listening to Shatner sing the blues in the LittleHorse diner. The whole city of Welach was compressing into this unusual space in my mind. It struck me as funny.
“Wait … her mom was Cinderella?”
“That’s what I called her. I have no idea what her name was. We make up our own name and names for friends, that is if we don’t like or can’t remember the ones they use. Parents name the kid early, but when the kid wants, the kid changes it.”
There was something to this, I thought. I can hardly ever remember the names of people I know casually. Time after time this has kept me from approaching someone I know at a party and saying hello because I can’t remember their
name, or worse, the name of the person they are with. How great if I could call them anything I wanted and they would accept this. I already did this a little, but only in my mind. I knew a Richard I called Rufus (not to his face since he would not have understood), and a Polly I called Gladys. Don’t ask me why; they were names that seem to fit them better. I realized as I sat here with Neffie how regimented and bureaucratic names are. Calling someone’s mom Cinderella because that was how she appeared to you was wonderful. What was even more wonderful was that here this practice was considered normal.
“So what did your parents call you?”
“Neftoon Zamora.”
I looked into her eyes to see what she was saying. There was a twinkle, but she was serious.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Neftoon Zamora. Now you know. I really am Neftoon Zamora.”
“And what did you change your name to when you got older?”
“Miss Twigs and Butterflies.”
“Twigs and Butterfl—?”
“No, no, I’m kidding.” To my great relief, Neffie laughed. “I didn’t change it. I used Neffie. I was named after the legend, the one I told you at Harouk’s, which I kind of like. I just left it. I used Miranda Clank when I went to school in the outer world.”
The name made me laugh and I started to laugh like a kid. So did Neffie. It felt wonderful.
I remembered, when I was young, forcing laughter because it felt so good. My friends and I would do or say
something that made us laugh hard, then we would keep doing or saying it again and again so we could laugh again and again. After a while, of course, the laughter would become hollow and meaningless. To my dismay, I saw this hollow laugh become the only laughter of adults: party laughter, business laughter, approval laughter. The genuine laugh that shook you all the way down was gone, except on occasions so rare as to be countable.
Sitting with Neffie, listening to her tell of the social economy of Welach, I was laughing again for real, laughing with delight, unchained.
As I looked around the room at the other people I felt an unusual sense of belonging. These people did not look like me, were not enthralled as I was, were paying no attention to our table, and yet there was about the room a type of family, a real family, independent of biology or background.
Lisa came back with the food. It looked awful and tasted worse. I didn’t keep this fact too well hidden, but Neffie said nothing. She never asked how I liked it. Instead she got up and went to the coffee urns and drew a cup of hot liquid. I thought it was coffee until I took a sip. It was almost undrinkable, a cross between tomato soup and warm vanilla ice cream.
“Not to put too fine a point on it, but this may be the worst food I ever had. What are these enchiladas? They taste like they were made out of tree bark. And the drink is … I don’t know … a kind of melted everything.”
“We don’t pay too much attention to food.”
Neffie never said anything to me about food again, except from time to time, to ask if I was hungry.
“So, on this name thing,” I said, “you make up whatever you want to call someone and that works. I mean, what about in a crowd, with people you don’t know well … you know, if you just make something up, then …”
“Try it,” she said, pointing to Lisa. “Who does she look like to you?”
I thought for a second. The name Margie came to mind.
“Margie,” I said. Neffie nodded, a “go ahead,” inclining her head towards Lisa.
I called out. “Margie.” Lisa kept on about her business. Once again, louder. “Margie.” Nothing. I looked at Neffie. Now what?
“Maybe it’s not Margie. Try again. Really think this time. You have to communicate with the name.”
“Margie is all I can think of.”
“Then, keep trying.”
I yelled out, loud, at the top of my voice: “Hey! Ma-argie!”
Most of the people turned around, including Lisa, who looked at me for a second, then pointed to herself as if to say “you want me?” I nodded and waved. Everyone who had turned to look went back about their business as Lisa headed over to the table.
“See. That’s how it works,” Neffie said. There was that twinkle again.
“Neffie, don’t be silly. She turned because I yelled. I could have thrown all the dishes on the floor and she would have turned and looked, but that doesn’t mean her name is ‘broken-dishes-on-the-floor.’”
Lisa was at the table. “Did you want me?”
“I was wondering if you had any way to refreeze this?”
I pointed to the enchiladas, still intact except for the one bite I had taken.
“He wants to call you ‘broken-dishes-on-the-floor,’” Neffie said.
“Fine with me,” Lisa said as she walked away.
It was clear nobody cared about the food. My jibe had gone unnoticed, even as a joke. The odd part about it all was I was not really hungry anymore. I was not sated as I would be after some extravagant meal, but the one bite I had taken of the mud enchilada and the one drink of the cup of whatever had cured the hunger even if it hadn’t filled me up.
I looked toward the entrance to see a big man coming in and heading toward the table. He was dangling some keys from his hand and held them out to Neffie as he sat down at the table.
“Hey,” Neffie said. “This is RD,” she said to me.
“Artie?” I said.
“RD,” he said. Neffie took one set of the keys from him as we shook hands.
“Runs Deep,” Neffie said. “RD for short. RD helped carry you out.”
“Oh. Thanks,” I said.
“You look a lot better now,” he said. “We didn’t know if you would make it. These are your keys.” He held out the other set of keys to me. “I put your car with Neffie’s scooter.”
RD was tall and handsome with long dark hair, almost black, drawn back into a ponytail. His features were rugged, eyes as clear and black as a moonless summer night, set in
a muscular face, model handsome, body like a wedge, with arms the size of some men’s legs.
“You coming to the dance tonight?” RD asked Neffie.
“I guess. Depends on Nez.” They both looked at me.
“Me? Yeah, sure, I guess. I’d love to see something like that.”
“Okay. See you there.” RD left, exchanging greetings with some of the people around the room. Neffie stood up.
“Let’s go sit on the floor,” she said as she grabbed my hand and led me out the door.
The late-morning sun was shining a huge shaft of light through the top of the canyon against the west wall, lighting up all the apartments. All the rest, in light shadow, was warm and beautiful. Neffie took me out to a large grassy area in the middle of the canyon, the canyon floor. I understood the name now. We sat down, she cross-legged and me stretched out. I was feeling good, relaxed and happy.
“What happened that night I saw you racing up to the catwalk?” I asked.
“After you and Harouk left I rode to the diner and took up my position in the back-corner booth where I first saw you. I was sitting there playing IQ when I saw a car pull up and this guy got out, which was fine, except when he went around to the passenger side and opened the door and pulled out Harouk, I knew something was wrong. Harouk was not wearing the wig, and the guy was handling him a little bit, you know, sort of pushing him around. He shoved him in the front door about the same time Li came out from the back.
“Li was nonplussed and seemed to recognize this man. I slunk down in the booth so they couldn’t see me.
“Li called the guy ‘Gus’ and started off cool, like he was running into an old acquaintance with bad memories between them. It changed into a shouting session pretty quick.
“Gus wanted to know what Li had done with the money from the center, and Li wanted to know how Gus found him out here. When Harouk tried to get out the door, Gus reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Gus picked up the pamphlets Li keeps around there next to the jukeboxes, you know, that ‘what is a wife?’ stuff, and started waving it in Li’s face and yelling. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he was mad. Then he took the tape out of his pocket, like the one you got from your doctor friend with the Zamora tunes on it, and he threw it on the counter and really lost his temper. He kept saying ‘You owe me, you little chink,’ and like that. One time he said he ‘wasn’t going to take a hit for him’ and then another time he said, ‘Give me the goddamn money back.’ I was only hearing pieces.
“I was trying to figure out how I could get out of there without being seen. There was a little side door about ten feet away from me but I would have to come out and be seen in order to use it. I was thinking I might make a run for it, but before I could decide, everything changed.
“Li was behind the counter and reached down suddenly, which made Gus pull a gun out of his jacket pocket and open fire. Li fell down behind the counter. I can’t say for sure he was hit, but I think so. At the same time Harouk broke free and ran out the front door. Gus ran out right in back of him and started shooting. That’s when I stood up and looked out the window. I saw Harouk fall, but I think
he only stumbled. The bullets Gus was firing were making these little geysers in the gravel and it didn’t seem like he was getting too close to Harouk.
“Then Harouk looked up and saw me standing in the window, and that made Gus turn around and see me too. Gus ran back to the front door waving his gun, and I bolted for the side door. I got outside as he came in the front and he fired at me but hit something way across the room. I didn’t get the feeling this guy was any good with a gun. I think he hit the Coke dispenser or something because I heard this hiss and saw cola spewing all over the place. I ran around to the front and jumped on the hog. Harouk was gone.
“Just as I got the bike started, Gus came running around the corner and shot at me one more time. This time he hit the front door, blew the Spamburger sign away and the light inside the door. I mean, he was shooting, you know, at a forty-five-degree angle to me. Totally off the target. But it was good for me and I bailed out of there, south. I saw him getting in his car but didn’t see him leave the lot.
“After a few miles I saw headlights way behind me. I was sure it was Gus. I was going to go to Welach through the catwalk. About halfway I ran out of gas, of all things, and had to switch over to reserve. When I reached down, the reserve switch was stuck so I pulled off the road and out of sight to unstick it. Whoever was following me came by, and, sure enough, it was Gus.
“By the time I got to Glenwood I was skittish. After I made the turn up to the catwalk I saw the lights from your car racing up in back of me and thought it was Gus. That’s why I took off.
“Up in the catwalk I thought I heard someone call but
I wasn’t going to stop and find out who. Then when you called out the second or third time I recognized you and doubled back around.
“I was up in back of you when I saw you fall. If I had been there a few seconds earlier I could have either pulled you up or shown you how to get back down. The catwalk is really only for serious climbers. Some of it is impossible. In a way it’s good you didn’t get any farther the way you were going. You would have gotten into a real jam.
“When I saw you fall I climbed down and pulled you out of the water. I carried you as far as I could but I couldn’t get you up over some of the tougher stuff up higher. I had to leave you there while I went back to get RD to help me carry you out. Got you back in here, and here you are.”
“Did you ever find out what happened to Li and Harouk and the Fatman?”
“How did you know he was fat?”
“Just doing a movie riff. He was fat, Gus?”
“Yeah, he was. He didn’t look like Greenstreet, but definitely overweight, thinking back.”
“Excellent. Did you ever find out what happened after you left?”
“No. I’ve been here with you. Some people have come back from town but they can’t get any news. Just another shoot-out. Rumors are some people were killed, but still rumors. I want to go back and check it out. Part of me wants to stay here and leave all that alone, but I’m worried about Harouk. I didn’t actually see him leave but he must have been well enough to get out of there.”
“I can go in and check it out for you, if you can’t leave here.”
“Can’t? You mean like Brigadoon?”
“Well, can’t … don’t want to … I mean, if you were still afraid of Greenstreet or something.”
“Thanks. No. Nobody will tell you anything anyway. You have to be local. Carry a gun. Eat meat. Wear a hat. But you can go with me. How are you feeling? Can you get around okay? You seem fine.”
“Great. No problems. Except for one thing. And it’s not a problem, but I … I wanted … you know … I want you to know I am finding myself more and more—what’s the word—attached to you. I mean really attached and … I have to tell you this because you really are … I mean I really think you’re … you know, really …”
I was lost. I had said really four times in a row. I was about to say really very when I shut up. I had not told someone of my love for them in years; courting had become foreign to me.
Then, horror of horrors, I became embarrassed. But now I had no way to withdraw, to suddenly change tack and pretend I was talking about something else. I began staring at the ground, unable to look up. My face was on fire; I must have been bright red. I thought perhaps if I burst into tears and ran around pretending to have lost my mind, that would cover it up. Maybe I could start singing some old railroad song about death and blood and divert the whole thing with a non sequitur.
Then I stopped thinking in English and strange visions started coming into my head, swirls of color I was sure I could use as proof of insanity. I was insane. That was it, clinically insane from too much fast food. Twinkies. Didn’t some killer get away with murder by pleading Twinkies
overload? I could also become invisible. Yogis did it all the time. Meditate. Float. Disappear. Something like that. I knew yoga. I could … no, wait, the Japanese tea ceremony. Aren’t the opening lines of the tea ceremony, “I am finding myself more and more attached to you.” You? I mean the tea. Not you as another person, but you as … I mean green tea, green-tea ice cream at the end of a sushi dinner is attached to you … but not you per se … you know, why do they have fortune cookies in a Japanese restaurant? Ever think of that? Maybe that’s only in the southern U.S., where Chinese food is all chop suey and egg rolls.
“Me too, Nez. Me too.”
Ta-daaa! … was all that went through my head. Ta-daaa! A fanfare of sorts. An annunciation. Deal closed. Done.
There is no more wonderful state of mind than love. Love itself, being in love, loving, feeling loved and lovely, all work together to create the highest and most happified state of existence. It is love that in one great sweep of the heartstrings brings into harmony the symphony of life, orchestrating and arranging all of life’s disparate parts into one grand concord. In love, where the operative word is in, like being in New York or being in a play. True love is a place the lovers occupy, happy citizens of an extraordinary city. Love all around.
This is not love that is physical, though the physical can express it in some minor degree, it is not congenial, courteous, not even convivial, though all these elements contribute some small part to its expression. True love is a type of mutual esteem, a state of shared values and perceptions wherein one’s motives turn away from the self, and its constant
effort towards satisfaction, towards another and another’s world, selflessly seeking another’s well-being and happiness, secure that in that simple notion rests all joy.
As I sat with Neffie I was shattered by gratitude. With the broken bones and scarred skin, the recent trauma of a failed effort, of no consequence, I was serene. We sat quietly. Then the kiss.
Neffie’s kiss was silent, simple, direct. For that moment, awash in Neffie’s being, my heart will sing with gladness for all time. I will never forget sitting on the floor of the magnificent canyon setting of Welach, when my lips touched hers, for in that single act was all the meaning of life to me.
Neffie stood and helped me to my feet. Standing together beneath the canyon walls, below the bank of rising houses to one side and nature’s profusion on the other, in the warmth of a noonday sun shining across the floor, in open view and plain sight, we embraced once more, a proclamation to all who would see it, a vow unsullied by ceremony, sanctified by the look of her eyes into mine and mine into hers. Two people ‘in’ love, one heart and one soul. It is this and only this no man can put asunder. Weddings be damned.
“Okay,” she said. “It’s playtime.”