Maybe I couldn’t fly. Maybe teacher was right. I sneaked out of bed and cautiously flew up to the top of the dresser and back. Then I pulled the covers up tight under my chin and whispered to myself, “I can so fly,” and sighed heavily. Just another fun stuff that grownups didn’t allow, like having cake for breakfast or driving the tractor or borrowing the cow for an Indian-pony-on-a-warpath.
And that was all of that incident except that when teacher met Mother and me at the store that Saturday she ruffled my hair and said, “How’s my little bird?” Then she laughed and said to Mother, “He thinks he can fly!”
I saw Mother’s fingers tighten whitely on her purse, and she looked down at me with all the laughter gone from her eyes. I was overflooded with incredulous surprise mixed with fear and dread that made me want to cry, even though I knew it was Mother’s emotions and not my own that I was feeling.
Mostly Mother had laughing eyes. She was the laughingest mother in Socorro. She carried happiness inside her as if it were a bouquet of flowers and she gave part of it to everyone she met. Most of the other mothers seemed to have hardly enough to go around to their own families. And yet there were other times, like at the store, when laughter fled and fear showed through-and an odd wariness. Other times she made me think of a caged bird, pressing against the bars. Like one night I remember vividly.
Mother stood at the window in her ankle-length flannel nightgown, her long dark hair lifting softly in the draft from the rattling window frames. A high wind was blowing in from a spectacular thunderstorm in the Huachucas. I had been awakened by the rising crescendo and was huddled on the sofa wondering if I was scared or excited as the house shook with the constant thunder. Dad was sitting with the newspaper in his lap.
Mother spoke softly, but her voice came clearly through the tumult.
“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be up there in the middle of the storm with clouds under your feet and over your head and lightning lacing around you like hot golden rivers?”
Dad rattled his paper. “Sounds uncomfortable,” he said.
But I sat there and hugged the words to me in wonder. I knew!
l remembered! ” ‘And the rain like icy silver hair lashing across your lifted face,’ ” I recited as though it were a loved lesson.
Mother whirled from the window and stared at me. Dad’s eyes were on me, dark and troubled.
“How do you know?” he asked.
I ducked my head in confusion. “I don’t know,” I muttered.
Mother pressed her hands together, hard, her bowed head swinging the curtains of her hair forward over her shadowy face. “‘He knows because I know. I know because my mother knew. She knew because our People used to-” Her voice broke. “Those were her words-“
She stopped and turned back to the window, leaning her arm against the frame, her face pressed to it, like a child in tears.
“Oh, Bruce, I’m sorry!”
I stared, round-eyed in amazement, trying to keep tears from coming to my eyes as I fought against Mother’s desolation and sorrow.
Dad went to Mother and turned her gently into his arms. He looked over her head at me. “Better run on back to bed, Peter. The worst is over.”
I trailed off reluctantly, my mind filled with wonder. Just before I shut my door I stopped and listened.
“I’ve never said a word to him, honest.” Mother’s voice quivered. “Oh, Bruce, I try so hard, but sometimes-oh sometimes!”
“I know, Eve. And you’ve done a wonderful job of it. I know it’s hard on you, but we’ve talked it out so many times. It’s the only way, honey.”
“Yes,” Mother said. “It’s the only way, but-oh, be my strength, Bruce! Bless the Power for giving me you!”
I shut my door softly and huddled in the dark in the middle of my bed until I felt Mother’s anguish smooth out to loving warmness again. Then for no good reason I flew solemnly to the top of the dresser and back, crawled into bed and relaxed. And remembered. Remembered the hot golden rivers, the clouds over and under and the wild winds that buffeted like foam-frosted waves. But with all the sweet remembering was the reminder, You can’t because you’re only eight. You’re only eight. You’ll have to wait.
And then Bethie was born, almost in time for my ninth birthday. I remember peeking over the edge of the bassinet at the miracle of tiny fingers and spun-sugar hair. Bethie, my little sister. Bethie, who was whispered about and stared at when Mother let her go to school, though mostly she kept her home even after she was old enough. Because Bethie was different- too.
When Bethie was a month old I smashed my finger in the bedroom door. I cried for a quarter of an hour, but Bethie sobbed on and on until the last pain left my finger.
When Bethie was six months old our little terrier, Glib, got caught in a gopher trap. He dragged himself, yelping, back to the house dangling the trap. Bethie screamed until Glib fell asleep over his bandaged paw.
Dad had acute appendicitis when Bethie was two, but it was Bethie who had to be given a sedative until we could get Dad to the hospital.
One night Dad and Mother stood over Bethie as she slept restlessly under sedatives. Mr. Tyree-next-door had been cutting wood and his ax slipped. He lost a big toe and a pint or so of blood, but as Doctor Dueff skidded to a stop on our street it was into our house that he rushed first and then to Mr. Tyree-next-door who lay with his foot swathed and propped up on a chair, his hands pressed to his ears to shut out Bethie’s screams.
“What can we do, Eve?” Dad asked. “What does the doctor say?”
“Nothing. They can do nothing for her. He hopes she will outgrow it. He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t know that she-“
“What’s the matter? What makes her like this?” Dad asked despairingly.
Mother winced. “She’s a Sensitive. Among my People there were such-but not so young. Their perception made it possible for them to help sufferers. Bethie has only half the Gift. She has no control.”
