Pigs in Heaven - Barbara Kingsolver [35]
“Like what?”
“Where she comes from, who she is. Big things. And little things, like milk, for instance. I’ll bet she won’t drink milk.”
Taylor picks up the ladle again and bangs it against the metal sink, hard, then puts it down again. “You’ve got some Goddamn balls, telling me who my kid is. I’d like to know where you were three years ago when she was on death’s front stoop.”
“I was in law school, trying to learn how to make things better for my nation.”
“We the people, creating a more perfect union.”
Annawake offers no response.
“This here is my nation and I’m asking you to leave it.”
Annawake stands up. “I’m sorry this hasn’t been a more friendly meeting of minds. I hoped it would be. I’d still like to see Turtle.” She leaves her card on the table, a small white rectangle embossed with red letters and the seal of the Cherokee Nation. “I think it would be good for her to talk about her heritage.”
Taylor says nothing.
“Okay. Well, I’m in town till Monday. I’d like to meet her. Should I come back tomorrow maybe? After dinner?”
Taylor closes her eyes.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
Taylor walks to the front door, holds it open, and watches the visitor pick her way through the fallen fruit in the yard. Annawake finds the keys in her pocket and stands for a second with her hand on the car door.
Taylor shouts, “She loves milk. We buy it by the gallon.”
Annawake’s rental is a low-slung blue Chrysler that gives her some trouble backing out. It wobbles and crunches its way down the rutted drive, headed back toward town.
Taylor stands on the porch, arms crossed, witnessing the retreat. The words “a more friendly meeting of minds” are smacking like angry pentup bees against the inside of her head.
High overhead in the apricot branches the taped music has reached its end, and gone quiet. One by one the birds emerge from the desert and come back to claim their tree.
9
The Pigs in Heaven
UNCLE LEDGER WOULD SAY, “Once you have ridden a horse, you should know what a horse is.” So it bothers Annawake that when she stands for the second time in front of the little rock house where Turtle stays she sees things she could swear were not there before. An odd stone tower at the end of the pitched roof, for instance, the kind of thing the white people in storybooks would hold prisoners in, or crazy aunts.
Of course, last time she was nervous. And watching a woman up a tree. Now there is only a skinny man in black jeans sitting on the porch steps. He’s staring at his hands, which seem to be dozing on his knees, a pair of colossal, torpid spiders.
“Hi,” Annawake tries. She stands with her own hands in her pockets, waiting for some kind of offer. “I’m Annawake,” she adds.
“Oh, believe me, I know that.” He seems to be rousing himself from his thoughts, very slowly, with a lot of effort, as if coming out of hibernation. “Where are my manners?” he says finally in a voice deep with despair, or the South. “Sit down here on this dirty old porch.”
The stone step is broad and slumped like the gateway to some ancient wonder of the world. When she sits, it bleeds coolness into her thighs, a feeling of dampness. “Are you the musician?”
“Jax,” he says, nodding a couple of times, as if barely convinced that this is his actual name.
“I heard your work yesterday. From that tree.”
“It terrified the birds, I hear. I think I’ve found my market.” Jax picks up a green apricot the size of a golf ball and flings it toward the cardboard owl in the treetops. It misses by a generous margin.
“Maybe. I liked your music all right,” she says. She throws an apricot and hits the owl with a loud pop, causing it to shudder and list on its branch.
“Jesus,” he says. Jax throws again, this time aiming for the trunk, and nicks the side. Annawake follows quickly, hitting the spot where his shot bounced off.
He looks at her sideways. With his dark brows and glint of gold earring, he resembles a pirate. “Is this one of those visitations? Are you about