“Watch out for the chair.” We groped through the darkness into the upper hall. A feeble fifteen-watt bulb glimmered on the steady drip of water splashing down into the sagging sink from the worn faucets that blinked yellow through the worn chrome. By virtue of these two leaky outlets we had bathing facilities on the second floor.
Our good nights were subvocal and quick.
I was in my nightgown and robe, sitting on the edge of my bed, brushing my hair, when I heard a shuffle and a mutter outside my door. I checked the latch to be sure it was fastened and brushed on. There was a thud and a muffled rapping and my doorknob turned.
“Teesher!” It was a cautious voice. “Teesher!”
“Who on earth!” I thought and went to the door. “Yes?” I leaned against the peeling panel.
“Lat-me-een.” The words were labored and spaced.
“What do you want?”
“To talk weeth you, teesher.”
Filled with astonished wonder I opened the door. There was Severeid Swanson swaying in the hall! But they had told me he had no English …. He leaned precariously forward, his face glowing in the light, years younger than I’d ever seen him.
“My bottle is broken. You have done eet. It is not good to fly without the wings. Los angeles santos, si, pero not the lovers to fly to kiss. It makes me drop my bottle. On the ground is spilled all the dreams.”
He swayed backward and wiped the earnest sweat from his forehead. “It is not good. I tell you this because you have light in the face You are good to my Esperanza. You have dreams that are not in the bottle. You have smiles and not laughing for the lost ones. But you must not fly. It is not good. My bottle is broken.”
“I’m sorry,” I said through my astonishment. “I’ll buy you another.”
“No,” Severeid said. “Last time they tell me this, too, but I cannot drink it because of the wondering. Last time, like birds, all, all in the sky-over the hills-the kind ones. The ones who also have no laughter for the lost.”
“Last time?” I grabbed his swaying arm and pulled him into the room, shutting the door, excitement tingling along the insides of my elbows. “Where? When? Who was flying?”
He blinked owlishly at me, the tip of his tongue moistening his dry lips.
“It is not good to fly without wings,” he repeated.
‘“Yes, yes, I know. Where did you see the others fly without wings? I must find them-I must!”
“Like birds,” he said, swaying. “Over the hills.”
“Please,” I said, groping wildly for what little Spanish I possessed.
“I work there a long time. I don’t see them no more. I drink some more. Chinee Joe give me new bottle.”
“Por favor, senor,” I cried, “donde-donde-?”
All the light went out of his face. His mouth slackened. Dead eyes peered from under lowered lids.
“No comprendo.” He looked around, dazed. “Buenas noches, senorita.” He backed out of the door and closed it softly behind him.
“But-!” I cried to the door. “But please!”
Then I huddled on my bed and hugged this incredible piece of information to me.
“Others!” I thought. “Flying over the hills! All, all in the sky! Maybe, oh maybe one of them was at the hotel in town. Maybe they’re not too far away. If only we knew … !”
Then I felt the sudden yawning of a terrifying chasm. If it was true, if Severeid had really seen others lifting like birds over the hills, then Low was right-there were others! There must be a Canyon, a starship, a Home. But where did that leave me? I shrank away from the possibilities. I turned and buried my face in my pillow. But Mother and Dad! And Granpa Josh and Gramma Malvina and Great-granpa Benedaly and-I clutched at the memories of all the family stories I’d heard. Crossing the ocean in steerage. Starting a new land. Why, my ancestors were as solid as a rock wall back of me, as far back as-as Adam, almost. I leaned against the certainty and cried out to feel the stone wall waver and become a curtain stirring in the winds of doubt.
“No, no!” I sobbed, and for the first time in my life I cried for my mother, feeling as bereft as though she had died.
Then I suddenly sat up in bed. “It might not be so!” I cried. “He’s just a drunken wino. No telling what he might conjure out of his bottle. It might not be so!”
“But it might,” one of me whispered maliciously. “It might !”
The days that followed were mostly uneventful. I had topped out onto a placid plateau in my battle with myself, perhaps because I had something new to occupy my mind or perhaps it was just a slack place since any emotion has to rest sometime.
However, the wonder of finding Low was slow to ebb. I could sense his “Good morning” with my first step down the stairs each day, and occasionally roused in the darkness to his silent “Good night.”
Once after supper Marie planted herself solidly in front of me as I rose to leave. Silently she pointed at my plate where I bad apparently made mud pies of my food. I flushed.
‘“No good?” she asked, crossing her wrists over the grossness of her stomach and teetering perilously backward.
“It’s fine, Marie,” I managed. “I’m just not hungry.” And I escaped through the garlicky cloud of her indignant exhalation and the underneath amusement of Low. How could I tell her that Low had been showing me a double rainbow he had seen that afternoon and that I had been so engrossed in the taste of the colors and the miracle of being able to receive them from him that I had forgotten to eat?
