indicating his approval, the meager dole of words.
With John, it was easier. He taught me the things my father never had: how to trail whitetail and flush grouse, how to cast for rainbow and cutthroat and steelhead.
I could hardly wait for Saturdays, when John and I would sail down the highway toward the woods, through Tammany, past the 49’ers arena, the speedometer topped out and no reasonto slow down. I would watch the sun slip behind the Blue Mountains, and I would remember the books I had read, the words so ripe I could taste them, and I would think, the mountains look blue because the
gloaming
has touched them; the sky is spreading its wings, feathering to
fuchsia, magenta
, that purple called
Tyrian
—like the colors of exotic birds, descending to a canopy of trees.
I did not speak such words aloud; no one wanted to hear them. They were fussy, temperamental. They were another of my secrets, my clandestine passions. I held them on my tongue, where they were safe. I would lay my head on John’s shoulder, close my eyes, feel the muscle in his thigh tense and relax. There was another language I was perfecting, one that would seem, for a time, to take the place of all that I could not say. I spoke it to John with my mouth, my hands, my hips. At the end of the evening, he would take me home, walk me in and shut the door. We made love every night because he was a man of eighteen and I was a woman who knew little about her own desire but understood that it was the one thing she could offer that would keep him long into the night.
O UTSIDE OF J OHN , there were few friends that I spent any time with. I was uneasy in the company of women, unsure how to traverse the complex pathways of female companionship. My family’s transient lifestyle had cost me the social confidence bred by lifelong friendships, and I’d consciously gone about an adherence to my father’s behavior, interests, and codes—one of which, though unstated, was clear: the truest and deepest adventures can be found only in the company of men.
My cousin Les, competitive and not easily intimidated, seemed one of the few women who offered the kind of camaraderie I craved: she did not tolerate boredom. There had been years when Les and I had shared little outside of family. Even though she had often accompanied me to summer church camp, she had never fallen under the spell of fundamentalism, and during those years when I went “straight,” she continued in her precocious ways, smoking, drinking, taking the punishment her parents meted out. Now, out from under our fathers’ roofs, we had once again found common ground.
Les had the exotic looks of her mother—high cheekbones, bronzed skin, large, almond eyes—gifts of an Indian heritage. She worked at a clothing boutique, taking her wages in strappy dresses, gossamer negligés, four-inch heels. We spent many evenings together, downing shots of schnapps, sharing cheap wine straight from the bottle, just as we had as teenagers bent on rebellion. We smoked, we cursed the air blue, we drove to Spokane for nights of dancing, then weaved the hundred miles home, never thinking about the ways in which we endangered ourselves and others. What mattered was
staying alive
, and that had little to do with physical survival. Our greatest fear was inertia, of finding ourselves gone still while the world revolved on around us.
It was with John and the other young men who shared his love of the outdoors that I found my truest fraternity. They took me in, allowed me to exist in that strange place between one of the guys and a girl to be protected. My favorite was Brock Hoskins, a shy Catholic boy with fine brown hair and chestnut eyes. He had a gentleness about him, quiet ways, and I often found him watching me. He leaned across thepickup seat one time, whispered in my ear, “John is a damn lucky guy to have you.” The sentiment—so sweet and old-fashioned—made me girlish, and I blushed.
Whenever we dropped Brock
With John, it was easier. He taught me the things my father never had: how to trail whitetail and flush grouse, how to cast for rainbow and cutthroat and steelhead.
I could hardly wait for Saturdays, when John and I would sail down the highway toward the woods, through Tammany, past the 49’ers arena, the speedometer topped out and no reasonto slow down. I would watch the sun slip behind the Blue Mountains, and I would remember the books I had read, the words so ripe I could taste them, and I would think, the mountains look blue because the
gloaming
has touched them; the sky is spreading its wings, feathering to
fuchsia, magenta
, that purple called
Tyrian
—like the colors of exotic birds, descending to a canopy of trees.
I did not speak such words aloud; no one wanted to hear them. They were fussy, temperamental. They were another of my secrets, my clandestine passions. I held them on my tongue, where they were safe. I would lay my head on John’s shoulder, close my eyes, feel the muscle in his thigh tense and relax. There was another language I was perfecting, one that would seem, for a time, to take the place of all that I could not say. I spoke it to John with my mouth, my hands, my hips. At the end of the evening, he would take me home, walk me in and shut the door. We made love every night because he was a man of eighteen and I was a woman who knew little about her own desire but understood that it was the one thing she could offer that would keep him long into the night.
O UTSIDE OF J OHN , there were few friends that I spent any time with. I was uneasy in the company of women, unsure how to traverse the complex pathways of female companionship. My family’s transient lifestyle had cost me the social confidence bred by lifelong friendships, and I’d consciously gone about an adherence to my father’s behavior, interests, and codes—one of which, though unstated, was clear: the truest and deepest adventures can be found only in the company of men.
My cousin Les, competitive and not easily intimidated, seemed one of the few women who offered the kind of camaraderie I craved: she did not tolerate boredom. There had been years when Les and I had shared little outside of family. Even though she had often accompanied me to summer church camp, she had never fallen under the spell of fundamentalism, and during those years when I went “straight,” she continued in her precocious ways, smoking, drinking, taking the punishment her parents meted out. Now, out from under our fathers’ roofs, we had once again found common ground.
Les had the exotic looks of her mother—high cheekbones, bronzed skin, large, almond eyes—gifts of an Indian heritage. She worked at a clothing boutique, taking her wages in strappy dresses, gossamer negligés, four-inch heels. We spent many evenings together, downing shots of schnapps, sharing cheap wine straight from the bottle, just as we had as teenagers bent on rebellion. We smoked, we cursed the air blue, we drove to Spokane for nights of dancing, then weaved the hundred miles home, never thinking about the ways in which we endangered ourselves and others. What mattered was
staying alive
, and that had little to do with physical survival. Our greatest fear was inertia, of finding ourselves gone still while the world revolved on around us.
It was with John and the other young men who shared his love of the outdoors that I found my truest fraternity. They took me in, allowed me to exist in that strange place between one of the guys and a girl to be protected. My favorite was Brock Hoskins, a shy Catholic boy with fine brown hair and chestnut eyes. He had a gentleness about him, quiet ways, and I often found him watching me. He leaned across thepickup seat one time, whispered in my ear, “John is a damn lucky guy to have you.” The sentiment—so sweet and old-fashioned—made me girlish, and I blushed.
Whenever we dropped Brock
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