WORLD PHONE CONVERSATION, 3 A.M.
After I got home with yogurt and turkey dogs and Cinnamon Toast Crunch and my brother-in-law left, I watched George Romero’s “Diary of the Dead,” and laughed at myself for choosing a movie that featured dozens of zombies getting shot in the head.
When the movie was over, I called my wife, nine hours ahead in Italy.
“I should come home,” she said.
“No, I’m O.K.,” I said. “Come on, you’re in Rome. What are you seeing today?”
“The Vatican.”
“You can’t leave now. You have to go and steal something. It will be revenge for every Indian. Or maybe you can plant an eagle feather and claim that you just discovered Italy.”
“I’m worried.”
“Yeah, Catholicism has always worried me.”
“Stop being funny. I should see if I can get Mom and me on a flight tonight.”
“No, no, listen, your mom is old. This might be her last adventure. It might be your last adventure with her. Stay there. Say hi to the Pope for me. Tell him I like his shoes.”
That night, my sons climbed into bed with me. We all slept curled around one another like sled dogs in a snowstorm. I woke, hour by hour, and touched my head and neck to see if they had changed shape—to feel if antennae were growing. Some insects hear with their antennae. Maybe that was what was happening to me.
Sherman Alexie
from his new book WAR DANCES
Posted over on The New Yorker
No comments:
Post a Comment