Correcting the Landscape by Marjorie Kowalski Cole Page A

language he could summon.
    I felt at peace, though suddenly fastidious, picking up butts and cans. A youngster in front of me picked something out of the ditch, waved and shouted to his friends.
    â€œHome pregnancy test! Never opened!”
    â€œHey, Mr. Hulburt, here’s another untouchable!”
    A scoutmaster brought up the rear with a long metal claw.
    At the corner a small crowd milled around a pile of cardboard boxes and other junk, waiting for the garbage truck. A tall woman in a faded blouse and blue jeans, with black and bleached-gold cornrows spilling from a neon green clip at the back of her head, was backing toward me holding one end of a huge couch. At the other end, facing me as she took small steps toward the street, was Gayle Kenneally.
    â€œCan we jump on it, Lucerne?” a small girl shrieked, pulling at the jeans of the tall woman.
    â€œWait till we get it set down,” Lucerne answered. Her long fingernails were the same green as her hair clip. “Now you go ahead and jump on this thing for the last time!” She and Gayle set it in the street, so that traffic would be forced to circle around. The upholstery was a mustardy print, white foam leaking out from many tears. “I’m one happy woman to get rid of this,” Lucerne called to Gayle. “He won’t know where he’s supposed to sleep next time he thinks to pay us a visit.”
    â€œThere is no next time,” said Gayle.
    â€œTake the cake and dump the chump!” Lucerne said.
    â€œLook what’s under the cushions!” cried the girl.
    Lucerne grabbed at the exposed belly of the couch. “That’s mine, Destiny, you take the change there, but this here’s mine. Put the cushion back now, hon. This thing is dirty. You don’t know how dirty.” She stuffed something rescued from the couch into the pocket of her jeans.
    â€œGus,” said Gayle.
    â€œGayle,” I said, and then with complete obtuseness, “what are you doing here?”
    â€œI live here.”
    I looked at her and at the sagging dark brown rambler from which she and Lucerne had hauled the couch.
    Saved by the approach of the sanitation truck. What could I have said to make up for that question, the complete exposure of my stupidity, the world of assumptions it gave away? If I said nothing more, I might survive. With the growling arrival of the truck, nothing more needed to be said. The maw opened and everyone joined the garbageman in hurling boxes, bags, tires, and unrecognizable junk into the truck. Lucerne, Gayle, and a teenage boy picked up the couch. I hurried to lend a hand. We took a few steps back to position ourselves, then ran it toward the truck.
    â€œLet’s get this sucker airborne!” Lucerne called. As it rose into the air and then tipped into the truck, shouts of delight went up.
    Gayle turned to me with a smile. I struggled against a half dozen stupid opening remarks, like Nice event, isn’t it? She wore a faded black T-shirt that read “Native Arts Festival,” and a pair of porcupine quill earrings. Nice earrings . I opened my mouth but words did not emerge.
    â€œLucerne,” Gayle said, catching the arm of the tall woman. “This is my boss, Gus Traynor, at the Mercury . Lucerne Thompson, Gus, she’s my roommate.”
    â€œHow do you do, Mr. Traynor.” Lucerne held out her hand, her green nails.
    â€œLucerne and I go way back,” said Gayle. “She came to Allakaket ten years ago to take care of my great-uncle. Got on a plane in Mobile, Alabama, and got off in Allakaket.”
    Lucerne looked older, up close, than her first appearance suggested. She must have been over forty, with deeply set eyes, the skin underneath them darker, almost black. Her hair, pulled tightly over her head to the huge green clip, was pure black and hugged her skull. The spectacular fall of cornrows was a mixture of her own hair and a hairpiece, a glittering tangle of