Revolution by Deb Olin Unferth Page B

didn’t know how to take care of myself—changing money, finding bus stations, I was right beside him all the time. I adopted every belief he had. I repeated it, garbling it somewhat, like a parrot. I reproduced a higher-pitched version of it. I looked at everything through his eyes. I wanted to see what he saw. I didn’t want to see whatever I saw. I didn’t know what to see when I looked. I worried all the time that someone would take George away from me—maybe even Sammy, who cares if George was only twenty-one? They were both wonderful, it made sense they’d want to be together and leave me behind. I had to become friends with her and stay near her as much as I could so she wouldn’t run away with George and so that she would feel guilty if she even thought about it. And I had to stay near George too, of course, which meant I had to have both of them near me at once. The three of us wound up spending huge amounts of time together, which only made me more nervous. I pined for San Salvador, where I’d had George to myself. In Nicaragua everyone was a threat—citizen, soldier, Internacionalista. I kept a careful eye on him.
    It occurs to me now: How did I not drive him away?
    It was exhausting being nervous. I looked forward to the day I wouldn’t have to be afraid.
    *   *   *
    As for him, it wasn’t his fault that he had to do everything for me or I would fall apart. He didn’t seem to mind my dragging around after him. He kept his independent spirit. He helped me, hurried me, included me in his tedious, endless political and theological debates. “She makes a point,” he’d say, then resay whatever I’d said so it made sense. He’d sit squinting at an Internacionalista interlocutor—the squint that let me know they didn’t have a chance. George would nod, listen, squint madly, until the Internacionalista wound down and quieted. Then with a few easy steps he’d take their argument to pieces. Sometimes people would never speak to us again after George was through with them. A Mormon once packed his things and left town in the middle of the night. An atheist once became violent, kicked George, who yelped in surprise like a puppy.
    George grew sullen sometimes, and this could last for days. He’d barely speak, sit alone, sink deep into himself. He’d ignore me. He may have been reacting to me: I was beginning to have small fits of rebellion. Or maybe he just needed a break from my neediness.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I’d say, following him down the street. Maybe he was sick of me following him everywhere?
    â€œAre you mad at me?” I’d whisper to him at a protest.
    â€œI’m trying to listen here,” he’d say, lifting his chin.
    Maybe he didn’t like me anymore?
    Or worse, maybe it had nothing to do with me at all.
    *   *   *
    Once we showed up in a town with no hotels, George and I and some Internacionalistas—a scientist lady, a man from Canada, a woman from Austria. We were standing in the street, holding our belongings in our arms, not sure where to put them down. At last a Nicaraguan family left their window and came out of their house.
    â€œAll right, all right, you guys can stay with us,” they said. “But get out of the street, for Christ’s sake. Do you want to get run over by a burro ? Ha ha.”
    It was just one big room up there, where the family put us, and this was upsetting because I was certain George was going to run away with one of the Internacionalistas, even though they were all in their thirties and very unimpressed with George and me. And George was upset because who should the scientist turn out to be but another big fat feminist, just what George needed. The feminists seemed to do nothing but order me not to listen to George, order me not to stay with George, not to marry George—I told everyone we met that we were