Fall 1986 • Vol. VIII No. 4 FictionOctober 1, 1986 |


When was it that Oswald Beautiful Badger Going Over the Hill made me look at some long streamers of paper, right there in the doctor's office in Keams Canyon, and told me these were pictures of my heart? In my seeing days, it must have been then, but I do not remember much more except what looked like a flat landscape, pretty much like they say it is up in Canada, with again and again a sharp little pylon with a small hump of land just next to it, then a stretch of flat land followed by a smaller, sharper hump of land and then another pylon. It looked okay to me, and he said, yes, that was a picture of my heart behaving well. Then with a rather sour smile he said he was glad his heart wasn't in this mess too, and he showed me a picture of my heart behaving badly, with all that flat-land area turned into a squiggly line with three or more humps or what looked like an angry jagged scribble of the kind you do if you want to scratch something out. Don't it make you sick, Uncle, to have

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