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Antonia is ushered into a room with cherubs on the ceiling and pictures of Jesus all about. Madame Theresa, the fortune teller, asks her to sit. Through a curtained door, Antonia watches a boy about twelve with a row of melons on an oilcloth-covered table. He brandishes a butcher knife and slits the first fruit with a dull thud. Madame Theresa says, amid slurping sounds, that Antonia will cause the death of someone close to her and will spend many years in an asylum. "But," she adds smiling, "you will live to be very old." Antonia, her voice husky with breath vibrating underneath, asks, "What must I do?" "Come every week. I can help you." "But I have no money," Antonia says. "I will light a candle for you tonight, but next week you must bring a donation." As she leaves, Antonia sees the melon table swimming with juice and seeds.
What I knew at first: Black Hawk: bacon Indians my grandmother frying delicious fat.
What I know now: bacon: good, dangerous. Black Hawk: an American Indian Chief captured buried tomahawk talked to President Jackson honorable saw balloon ascent in NYC given topaz earrings vain humiliated wore coat, pants and vest 1767-1838.
Antonia decides the woman is evil. Her sister laughs at her, says, "Everyone knows Theresa's a liar." Still a cloud hangs over Antonia. After all, friends, even acquaintances, tell her their troubles. In recent weeks, three people have threatened her with suicide. She stops seeing a romantic sailor who looks like a picture book. She was fascinated each time he showed her his tattoos. On his right arm was a ship and a strawberry girl and on his left the girl waited at a gate for her sweetheart and farther up his arm the man was kissing the girl. He called it, "The Sailor's Return." He could never refuse Antonia anything. He'd have given her his tattoos if she'd asked for them. Antonia couldn't explain she liked him too much to date him.
Several months pass; Antonia is draping folds of satin on a wire figure when the new boarder, Ken, a cowboy, walks into the dining room. "Mind if I lay my rodeo gear on this table for a minute?" He spreads out his leather chaps, silver spurs and the boots with tops stitched with roses, true-lover's knots and unclothed females. Antonia continues to work. "These are my angels," Ken says, pointing at the nudes. Antonia blushes, her cheeks become dark red plums "Can I take you to the dance Friday?" he asks. He thinks city girls' bodies don't move inside their clothes the way Antonia's does. Most girls' muscles ask one thing: Do Not Disturb. Antonia's brown arms and legs call to him to come running across the velvety red Bokhara carpet. "I thought you were dating Lena," she says. "Not any more."
The next day, Antonia's thinking of Ken as she stares out the window at the
red prairie grass-the color of wine-stains or certain seaweed when first washed ashore. There's so much motion, the country seems to be running. A strand of sunflowers, making a gold ribbon, parts as Mary breaks through. she bounds inside, hides under Antonia's feather bed. Lena pounds on the door. Antonia opens it. Lena, knife in hand, hisses, "Feel how sharp this blade is. When I find Mary, I'll cut her to bits!" "Why?" Antonia gasps. "She's flirting with Ken." Antonia gulps. Ken enters. "What's all this commotion?" Ken wrests the knife from Lena and shoos her and Mary from the room. He demands, "Come with me to the dance, Antonia." "No," she says, tensing.
Friday night, Antonia inserts a frail green hopper in her hair like a piece of Art Deco jewelry and ties a scarf loosely over her curls. She walks past the Danish laundry and into the dancing pavilion. When Ken asks her to waltz under the arched cottonwood trees, she does not refuse. He's a good dancer, but for the rest of the evening, she ignores him. That night, she comes in her sleep. For days she avoids Ken. Then for three nights running, she dreams of ripping up pictures. On the fourth day, she enters Madame Theresa's as a dark, stout woman with a black lace parasol is settling herself. Antonia strips a painting of Jesus from its frame while the fortune teller sits motionless. By the time Antonia's on the third picture, Theresa's son is prying away her hands. Antonia stalks off with a chunk of Jesus's nose. She knows now she'll never enter the crazy house. Black Hawk: town in My Antonia. Mauve passages from My Antonia. This piece first appeared in The Minnesota Review, spring, 1989. |