Her practiced eyes followed the bracelet’s design, dipping in and out of the radiating lines. She gently nudged the piece to look at the back and found the carved squiggle line which seemed to end in a hook. It appeared just like the ones mentioned in the army doctor’s journal. The weight, shape, and feel of the piece spelled 1880s to her. It was simply the most beautiful of the very early historical bracelets she’d seen during her years of training. It most likely was genuine.
Betty Lou arrived with the guy’s meal. “Here you go, Avery. Cook got you the crispest slices — the ones you like best.”
Avery Gray saluted her with his coffee cup, Matilda returned to her minute inspection of the bracelet. After a few minutes of rather wolfish eating, Gray felt the need to break their silence. “That’s Slender-Maker-of-Silver’s work all right. I’ve seen his son’s stuff and this is just as good but done with cruder tools. It’s got his hallmark, too.”
When Matilda said nothing, just nodded and kept perusing the bracelet. Gray settled into a running monologue between bites of food. From what Matilda overheard, he seemed to be mentioning all the various luminaries in her field he’d done work with; notable anthropologists, archeologists, museum dignitaries, collectors with deep pockets. He even mentioned a popular nature writer, a former ski champion from Colorado, who she’d briefly dated about seven years ago.
The bacon was gone and a second cup of coffee was down to its dregs. Gray narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “You got the money I asked for? In fifty dollar bills, right?”
“Yes, but again — what can you tell be about this bracelet’s provenance? I need convincing documentation.” Matilda hoped her tone sounded stern and unyielding.
“Okay, okay. Slender-Maker-of-Silver lived up near Crystal, ya know.”
Matilda nodded, her eyes fixed firmly on his.
“He had a friend, a close friend who lived down near Gamerco. Guy was a crystal gazer and a hand trembler. Did well money-wise, so he commissioned a bunch of stuff from the smith. Then around the early 1880s he up and married Slender-Maker’s youngest sister. The family has held on to these pieces out of sentimentality.”
“Can I meet them?” Matilda asked. “And why are they willing to part with something like this now?”
Gray shrugged his shoulders. “Need the money, I guess. Whole outfit looks pretty run down. But they are traditionals, don’t want to mix it up with white folk.” He tried to look bland and honest but Matilda’s internal skepticism rose.
“So if that’s the case, why are they selling through you?”
“Oh, well. Forgot to tell you.” Grey laughed and his eyes dipped to the last piece of egg he pushed around on his plate. “My cousin ranches out next to them. Went to school with the eldest boy, so they use him to contact me.”
“And this bracelet was supposed to be a cluster band. Roy Climmer confirmed that was its style. He didn’t mention anything about it being cast.” To her surprise, Matilda saw that her question had thrown Gray into unexpected confusion.
“That’s funny,” Avery Gray said, scratching his stubbly chin. “I had two bracelets. This one and a small clusterwork by Fred Peshlakai. Climmer bought the other one, and said he’d tell you about this cast one.”
The drumbeat of suspicion felt awfully like a headache to Matilda. She’d so wanted to believe Climmer, and only the fact that Tom Vaughn had been involved had kept her playing this suddenly tedious game. One fact, though. Matilda wanted the bracelet. It was the real thing. It was old enough to possibly be by Slender-Maker-of-Silver. There weren’t that many smiths active in this region in the 1880s.
She brought the money out when there seemed to be an ebb in foot traffic near them. She’d deliberately chosen the area off limits to vendors, so they hadn’t been interrupted. Matilda could see the once friendly waitress working in another part of the restaurant. Avery took the envelope, rifling through the bills twice before stowing it in his coat. Matilda noted he appeared ready to move on.
“I have some other things from that cache.” He said as he made to leave. When her uplifted eyebrows urged attention, he sputtered on. “They got a silver single strand naja pendant, nice chisel work. And a tobacco canteen, with floral decoration that makes it seem Mexican-influenced.” He named a reasonable price. Too much so, but intriguing. Matilda’s eyes narrowed in speculation. This bracelet was enough in itself, but the other two items would be welcomed by her director and colleagues. Especially the canteen.
About six months ago, a rival colleague had told the director that word had gotten out of a discovery of a cache of Slender-Maker-of-Silver jewelry marked with the S-shaped hallmark. A former pot hunter turned respectable was quietly hawking these pieces, contacting selected individuals in the field. Tom Vaughn, now running a small non-profit cultural center near Albuquerque, had been contacted by the would-be former pot hunter; Tom, in turn, informed Matilda through a former colleague of hers, since Matilda’s museum had deeper pockets.
Antique American Indian jewelry with a spurious provenance had been the downfall of some professionals in the world of Southwestern Native America. According to Roy Climmer, Vaughn had seen some of the pieces briefly and he thought Matilda should try to acquire at least one, a handsome cluster bracelet. Vaughn was someone she trusted, and this had propelled her into action.
But to her disappointment, Matilda had flown to Albuquerque only to discover that Tom Vaughn was in Central America co-leading a fundraising tour. Sitting quietly in her booth, the warm New Mexico sunshine splashed across the table, she couldn’t help but feel anxious. She’d been surprised when Climmer first spoke to her about the man and the bracelet he possessed. At one time Matilda thought Roy had shown some romantic interest in her; she’d rebuffed him politely, still unsure about his feelings, but since then he’d never show any emotion toward her except fellowship.
A shadow fell across the sunny table top and Matilda looked up to see the waitress was cleaning the adjacent booth. She sent a sympathetic smile to her and Matilda instinctively smiled back.
“Waiting for someone special?” the woman asked.
“Yeah, you could say so,” Matilda said. “But he’s running late.”
“Oh, he’ll be here,” the waitress said hearteningly. “How could he pass up meeting someone so pretty?”
Her soft words sounded genuine and Matilda smiled again, pleased at the friendly reassurance. At the same time, she felt compelled to add, “But it’s a business meeting. This guy has something I want to buy.” Why had she even been this forthcoming? But there was something about the young woman, maybe the fact that she seemed to be around her age, which loosened her tongue.
Of course, it was the “Land of Enchantment” kicking in. Matilda knew her upbringing had been pretty much New England reserved; people in her family were not free with confidences or confessions.
“An artist? We’ve got plenty of those here, and I’m not talking about our vendors,” the young woman said fondly. “Some of our local talent fetch high prices in Santa Fe and Scottsdale.”
Matilda suddenly wished that such was her meeting, that she would soon greet an artist intent on explaining his or her vision. Now the doubts she’d been busily trying to bury started climbing to the surface. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She could get up, pretend she’d left something behind, and drive back to her motel.
A bustle near the entrance alerted both women to a newcomer. Matilda watched with bemusement as the sunny expression on the waitress’s face faded into one of distaste. She even gazed back at Matilda for a moment as if in reproach. Then she squared her shoulders and moved off to the kitchen.
The guy was tall, lanky. Matilda thought he carried a certain invisible authority with him. He was sunburnt, wore light stubble on his cheeks and chin, and had ash blonde hair that hung down to his shirt collar. He swiveled around, surveying the room, until he spotted her. Was that a predatory gleam in his eye, or was she just imagining things? He reminded her as nothing so much as a redneck good old boy — something that embarrassed her as soon as she thought it.
Perhaps it was the waitress’s disdainful attitude that reanimated her uncertainty. This man was precisely the sort of individual she’d been expecting to meet. For one brief second she had a vision of her finely groomed, fastidious director meeting this guy and she repressed a snort. He’d spotted her now and loped over to the table before folding his long limbs into the seat opposite her.
“Sure nice to meet ya, Miss Townshend,” he said, his watery blue eyes ogling her in a manner she’d rarely had to confront up close. “Old Roy said ya was a looker, and he was right.”
“Would you like something to eat?” she asked. His look took in her barely touched sandwich and he smirked, making her uncomfortably aware that he guessed her anxiety.
“Hey, Betty Lou!” he shouted over to the woman who’d waited on Matilda. She arrived smiling, and he ordered huevos rancheros with black coffee. She brought him a steaming cup and disappeared into the kitchen.
“I figgered you’d like to see the item in question,” he said, pulling a brown silver keeper pouch out of his thin windbreaker. He unlaced the strings and placed the pouch on the table in front of Matilda’s plate. She bent forward to stare; all she’d been told was that the bracelet was a cluster cuff, something that had especially intrigued her. This piece was not clusterwork: multiple stones set in small bezel holders. Instead, the thick curved band was clearly cast work. The silver was coin, a rich dark gray with a fine patina. Carefully, Matilda picked the pouch up and turned it in various angles. The composition of the bracelet band was dazzling; the piece looked like a starburst of finely curving lines launched from a central point. Along the ends of the band were finely chiseled grooves. The style was suitably ancient, from a period when stamps and dies were rare and handmade.
(Continued next week)
Matilda Ruto Townshend leaned back in her booth at Earl’s Restaurant on Historic Highway 66 in Gallup. She’d heard a lot about this famous eatery and it certainly seemed pleasant and rather unremarkable as well, not unlike country cafes back east or in the Midwest. On the other hand, she watched a small chain of youngsters with boxes of pre-fabricated hoop earrings and fake tomahawks file by diners’ booths and tables. A gap-toothed older man was busy selling some fabric dolls to a middle-aged couple who gazed raptly at his goods. That wasn’t like anything at home. There were other vendors, too, lined up in the parking lot.
Matilda was excited and nervous. She was feeling rather like a new generation Indiana Jones. If the tip she’d been given a few weeks ago was good, she had a chance to acquire a rare and distinctive object and resolve a longtime puzzle about a famous Native silversmith. She’d had to fight hard, to counter the speculation and doubt she’d engendered by her aristocratic origins and family prominence. The Townshends were politicians, small town moguls, and educated at Yale and Brown, occasionally Harvard. They played touch football with the Kennedys and the Bushes. What was someone like her doing in a Navajo reservation border town?
Waiting for her contact, it seemed. For the fortieth time, she blessed Tom Vaughn’s propensity for craft beer; he’d been the one to lead her to the person she was here to meet. So many people involved in the world of Native American affairs stepped into Earl’s. Across the way, a young waitress wiped down an empty booth. Several times she had given Matilda friendly looks. She looked like she might be Indian or Hispanic, possibly a mix. Matilda had endured enough forensic anthropology to be comfortable with her assessments. Since she was at least ten minutes early, Matilda ran her mind back on the issue at hand.
Anthropologist John Adair had done field work on the Navajo reservation in the 1930s. Many of the silversmiths he talked to had memories of the first generation of Native smiths. One of the first was a man known a Slender-Maker-of-Silver; there was an early photograph of him holding out a stupendous concha belt in a clearly early style. Metalworking was fairly new to the Southwestern Indians, and exposure during captivity in the 1860s to Army blacksmiths and Mexican plateros. To this day, the early silverwork of the first smiths was rare and hard to locate, complicated by the fact that the men of the nineteenth century did not use hallmarks.
Even today attribution of Slender-Maker-of-Silver’s works was disputed. Two museums held pieces with fairly believable provenances. A dealer in Pennsylvania and a collector in Washington D.C. allowed scholars access to items they insisted were his work. The man’s family name, Peshlakai, also accounted for relatives born into later generations who displayed comparable talent. For most of the twentieth century his oeuvre remained guesswork.
And then, in 2010, a graduate student working on the archival writings of a late nineteenth century army doctor, held in a Nevada local history institution, unearthed new information that made the story of Slender-Maker-of-Silver spring back to life. This doctor, who plied a steady route of army forts between Albuquerque and Carson, had written some journals near the end of his life. Dr. Buckner claimed that he’d made friends with Slender-Maker-of-Silver in the 1880s and 1890s and had urged him to use a crude hallmark to distinguish between his work and that of jealous rivals. This metal mark was a wavy S shape, and Buckner reproduced a drawing of the hallmark.
The antique American Indian art world went nuts. Scholars, experts, and museum curators chose sides and the academic brawling began. Collectors and dealers, bellowing about Navajo silverwork as a “living art,” interviewed every Peshlakai they could find, including an Iranian immigrant who’d been adopted by a California branch of the family. Mysterious pieces replete with this hallmark suddenly appeared on the market, until some very determined Department of Interior detectives uncovered their origin in a Farmington pawn shop basement.
Matilda found her way into this landmine field when her director at the prestigious private museum in New England tapped her to learn more about the controversy. The director had spent some time with a Peshlakai family on the Navajo reservation when completing field work for his doctorate. He’d become intrigued and, eventually, obsessed by the notion that Adair’s informants had played him wrong in some instances. Dr. Buckner’s journals had reignited his scholarly interest. A new development, however, had made her boss push Matilda further into the quagmire.
(Continued next week)
“Did they dump it?” she asked two of the large brown bunnies eyeing them from the nearest patch of shaded bush. One rabbit calmly washed his face, making it clear he had nothing to say. Jake decided they should notify one of the rangers, on the offhand chance someone had spotted the items. They changed out of their boots into sneakers and, setting the car in motion, found a placid-faced middle-aged ranger in his small four-wheeler at the intersection of the Campground road and the main access road. He had a stack of paperwork on the seat next to him.
He listened to their explanation calmly, nodding his head at intervals. Pam felt almost embarrassed, for nothing had been taken from her but a pretty vinyl tote bag. Still, it didn’t belong to a couple of guys who were undoubtedly annoyed they hadn’t snagged anything of worth.
“Well, this happens from time to time,” the ranger drawled. “If you’re a local there are ways to get into the park, mostly on old forest roads we’ve let get overgrown. I can’t imagine they were impressed by what they got from you,” he shook his head. “And why they’d want an umbrella beats me.” His expression brightened. “I think you should go back, make a tour of the campgrounds, check all the garbage bins and the toilet and shower buildings. They might have driven over to one and then dumped what they found before moving on.”
He agreed to meet up with them after he delivered that day’s mail to the entrance booth. Pam and Jake slowly rolled back into the Juniper Campground. With the weather so nice, they rolled down the windows and concentrated on searching the various bushes alongside the road. Solemn brown eyes stared back at them as the rabbit denizens sprawled in the shade. They made no effort to get up, although the two humans knew any physical walking toward them would result in a mass departure. From time to time, Pam would address them, “Seen any bright blue bags, bunnies?”
Stops at actual campsite grounds called for more thorough checking. Fortunately, there were not too many actively occupied sites. Garbage cans were checked, outbuildings explored, but no results. They reached the last campsite parking area, close to the main trailhead parking where they’d started, when Jake spotted a flash of blue in a cluster of bushes. Pam was so excited, she ran forward heedless of the alarmed animals who had staked out this area for themselves. As they retreated in indignation, she snatched up her shiny tote bag, which had been tossed into the undergrowth. To her amazement, despite the proximity to rabbit mouths, the bag had no chew marks on it. The umbrella, however, was still very much gone.
They decided the hunt was over, and victory indeed. On their way out of the campground, they stopped to speak to the ranger, who was just arriving at the intersection from the entrance booth. Pam excitedly held up the tote bag and regaled him with the details of their triumphant discovery. The ranger smiled and shook his head at the same time. “Glad you found it but this is the first time anyone’s ever stolen an umbrella here in Bandelier that I can recall. Just one of those things that makes no sense…”
They parted company in different directions, the happy tourists heading back to a good meal in a nice restaurant, where Pam could admire her almost-lost bag, while ignoring the much more expensive variations on the theme in rich leather sported by fellow diners, and the park ranger joked about the incident over lukewarm coffee down at the station near the Visitor’s Center.
Nobody thought about a scene of a different kind taking place in an area of scrubby brush about 400 feet from where the tote bag had been recovered back at Juniper Campground. Three plump and self-assured rabbits sat chewing the nylon fabric of a black Totes brand umbrella, two juveniles seated next to them with barely concealed eagerness waited for their chance at this tempting snack. What would be the next outlaw action of the Bandit Bunnies of Bandelier National Monument?
She’d learned the simple caution of bringing all valuables with her. Before this trip, she’d been delighted when, while shopping at Macy’s in Queens, she’d found a turquoise vinyl purse and matching tote bag carryall. The color of the bags shouted “Southwest” to her. Once her transfer was completed Pam got out of the passenger seat and checked the tote bag for any missing items. Only a small umbrella, a relic of their years of hiking in England, remained in the bag.
She looked up at the very vibrantly blue sky overhead. Only a few high, wispy white clouds hung in the west. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a red pickup truck pull into the far end of the parking lot with two guys inside the cab. She threw the tote bag into the trunk, wondering why she’d even brought the umbrella. She’d never needed it the times they came out to the West. Perhaps it was time to shed this item for good.
Shouldering their packs, Pam and Jake headed up to the trailhead. There were two choices: the steep Frey Trail, original path of descent into the canyon before the NPS road was built, and the level Tyuonyi Overlook Trail. The latter was their choice this morning. Pam’s knees were hurting a bit and they wanted to make time in the late afternoon to soak in the hotel hot tub. Big bunnies loped away as they started on the overlook trail. Pam decided they’d made a good choice as they paralleled the Frey Trail start; there would be no shade from the sun for most of the path down.
There hadn’t been much rain lately, so the trail proved to be rather dusty. Juniper bushes sent out a soft scent, undercut by piñon. Most of the spring flowers had already bloomed. Some small archaeological sites caused them to halt and contemplate the remnants of walls and room outlines. Pam smiled at their appearance, a reminder of her college years working salvage archeology in upstate New York during the summers. They found the end of the trail after a while, dawdling to eat and drink on an outcrop of rocks. Tyuonyi Canyon looked warm with a noontime sun overhead. A ranger led a group of Boy Scouts out toward the cave. A handful of older adults were heading down the horse trail from the back of the canyon while others toiled up the zig-zag. Pam grinned again, remembering how they’d lingered at the top one late afternoon on their last visit and heard that most hauntingly alarming of wild calls, the doleful howls of a pack of coyotes.
When Jake uncovered a nest of fire ants, the idyll was definitely over. They sauntered back the way they’d come in, stopping periodically to catch breezes running through the trees. Somehow the same sense of vigilance beset them as they emerged into the now empty parking lot. Warily, they approached their rental car. The passenger window had been jimmied, along with the trunk lock. Their sneakers and socks, located on the floor of the backseat were untouched. Only the turquoise tote and umbrella were gone. Pam thought with pleasure how disappointed the thieves, probably the guys in the pickup truck, had been. But she wanted that tote bag!
[This one is based on a real life story that happened in the early 1990s.]
Pam and Jake loved coming to the Southwest. The contrast with the urban metro New York City area couldn’t be more vivid. Maybe it was the vast blue sky, the rugged mesas, the ever-changing play of light on the mountains. Perhaps it was most of all the change from hiking and walking in northern England. It always rained in the English Lake District, no matter what time of the summer they traveled there. Rain the Southwest, when it came, stayed briefly, and often ended in a rainbow. And slickrock was much easier to traverse than the stony paths of Cumbria and Yorkshire.
This morning they were going to Bandelier National Monument. It was pleasantly warm for late May, whatever chill had been in the air was burned off by the time they reached the park’s entrance off Route 4. The ride there from Santa Fe had been satisfactory, a slingshot ride around dips and hills and hints of intriguing buildings behind barbed wire, labeled as Los Alamos Laboratory property. Their destination came shortly after they paid admission at the toll booth. A right turn and they were in Juniper Campground. Only a handful of camping sites were occupied.
The Campground was located on the upper portion of Bandelier. Those wishing to access the Visitor’s Center and main area still faced a five-mile swoop down into Frijoles Canyon. This morning, however, the Campground possessed a scenic quality they’d never seen before. The layout of the area was dotted by neat rows of knee-high bushes casting shade on the various access roads into campground sites and along the route to the parking lots. And occupying the shade under these bushes sat dozens upon dozens of rabbits. Jake slowed down and they counted the bunnies with fascination. Pam and Jake had two rabbits at home that ruled the roost. Seeing a wild rabbit out West always seemed like a piece of luck, but this was a bonanza!
They were sizable, too. Pam estimated most could weigh at least ten pounds. This spring had proved to be highly favorable for the Bandelier rabbit population. A majority appeared to be Western cottontails with smooth brown coats, but a number of yellowish jackrabbits with dark tails could be counted as they passed by. Most of the creatures eyed their slowly moving car tolerantly, and only a few got up from their sitting position to inspect the vehicle with suspicion.
Pam was delighted. This bonanza of bunnies seemed to portend a good hike ahead. They reached the farthest parking lot near the amphitheater and pulled into a spot. There was only one car parked, a white Ford Escort. Even here, rabbits could be seen lounging under the sheltering bushes. Now came the pleasurable ritual of exchanging sneakers for hiking boots. Jake got their daypacks from the rental car trunk. Once Pam had finished lacing her boots, she carefully stowed her purse inside the daypack.
(To be continued)
Neville brought Mary Ellen into the trailer, guided her to a wing chair and let her sit, then began rummaging in the refrigerator for what turned out to be two cans of soda. He handed one of them to her with a flourish. Mary Ellen let her gaze roam around the plush interior, feeling a presentiment that this sort of view would become greatly familiar to her in the future. The men who’d followed them inside were conferring in a buzz of excitable words, staring over at her.
“Congratulations,” Neville said, smiling, “you’ve clearly got the part.”
“They haven’t seen me do anything yet,” she protested. Everything was going too fast. But time slowed down abruptly when he walked over and perched on the arm of the chair next to hers. He reached out and stroked her hair, reminding her how tousled it had to be from the convertible.
“So, we’re both half-Native,” he mused, his eyes still intent on her face. “That’s the good half, the useful half. But our other half is suitable for this moment. Now.”
“Why?” she almost croaked, so dazzled was she from his scrutiny.
He waved his free hand rather abstractly. “Here. In this trailer. At this location. Making a movie. They’re all about appearances. And you, my dear, look exactly like a royal lady from a medieval fantasy world. Just right enough to make a wandering hero fall in love…”
Good heavens, he was going to kiss her! Mary Ellen’s eyes widened and then narrowed, wondering how this day could get any more remarkable. Except two of the men broke away from their conversation and headed straight for them.
“Come on, Neville, you’ll have time to spoon later on, we’ve got to get her into Makeup and Wardrobe, and do two sound checks, and then she needs a script, all that.”
“Okay, okay, but I’m going to trail along and make sure you don’t bully her too much. Hank is coming, too, right?” Neville looked over at the Hawaiian shirt guy, and Mary Ellen realized he was the bodyguard. An old friend of Neville’s maybe?
She led herself be led away, even as Neville whispered in her ear, telling her of the things they would do when she finished, of the celebration they would have later for finding each other…
“Wake up, Sleepyhead! You’ve got a customer in Full Service!”
Mary Ellen stirred and jerked upright, finding herself sprawled on the lawn chair. She wasn’t in Chinle anymore. Her brother leaned out of the station door, and a handsome car had pulled up to the Full Service pumps. With a groan, Mary Ellen heaved out of the chair and headed over to check out the vehicle. This one was a sleek white four-door Mercedes Benz E-Class. The driver had the windows down and he was grinning widely at her. He looked familiar.
“Do you remember me, Mary Ellen,” he asked, still smiling. His slightly longish black hair curled around his shirt collar, and he removed his sunglasses to reveal nice blue eyes. She peered at him, still foggy from her dream state, and gave a tentative smile in return.
“Aren’t you Johnny’s friend? The one from Durango?”
“That’s right! Pete Upshaw, I teach at Fort Lewis College.”
She grinned back now. He was her eldest brother’s friend, about his age. She’d met him in Durango when she’d gone to visit Johnny and his girlfriend. Pete’s father owned a gallery in town.
“Yep, it’s the old man’s car,” he said, popping out of the passenger seat and taking the pump from her hand to guide it to the fill. “I need to gas up since I’m heading to Chinle. Have you heard they’re shooting a film there?”
She nodded, her hands suddenly nerveless. “Are you going to audition?”
“Maybe,” he nodded. “I have the next two weeks free before school starts again. But I stopped in because your brother thought I should pick you up and your little brother and bring them down to try out. They need locals for some of the scenes they’re filming.”
“Oh.”
“Here, let me fill up, and then I’ll square it with Frank.”
For what seemed like the second time, Mary Ellen walked into the station and headed for the back room.
“Oh, yeah,” Frank called over to her. “I forgot all about him coming.”
Mary Ellen stalked into the back room and went over to a sink to splash water on her face, then she picked up her purse, took out a brush and combed her hair thoroughly. By the time she reached the counter, Pete was hauling up her six year-old brother, Caleb, and tickling him mercilessly. He nodded at Mary Ellen appreciatively and she went to the wall case and took out three cans of Pepsi.
“Call me when you get there,” Frank shouted after her as she followed the others to the car.
Pete, still carrying Caleb, dumped him in the back seat. He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door so Mary Ellen could slide in. Once he’d resumed his driver’s seat, he turned down the car radio that had been blasting the Moody Blues’ “I Know You’re Out There Somewhere,” yelled at Caleb to buckle up, and took the soda can Mary Ellen wordlessly offered him. After a good gulp, he replaced it in the cup holder and started up the car.
“I thought waiting around a film set might be a nice way to get to know each other,” he said. “Your brother said you’d be thrilled to get away because…”
“…nothing much happens ever in Many Farms,” she finished the sentence with him, and basked in the admiring look he gave her.
“Fill her up,” he said, still grinning, “I just drove down from Monument Valley on your local Route 59.”
Mary Ellen wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, it gets real dusty around Rough Rock.” She got busy with the pump after locating the gas cap on the Porsche.
The driver laughed, a deep musical sound. “Go ahead, ask me.”
Her eyes traveled critically over his face, as if suspicious that he wasn’t who she thought. “You are Neville Kalani, right?”
“Guilty as charged. But you’re the first person so far on this reservation who has recognized me.” Good heavens, were his eyes twinkling at her?
Mary Ellen thought a moment. “Well, your series often airs in the same time slot when our regional sports channel runs baseball and football games.”
“Never mind that, now,” he said suddenly and got out of the car. “I’ve been deputized to do some casting while I’m in the area. Do you know we’re filming a movie down at Canyon de Chelly this week?”
She shook her head, excitement coursing through her. She’d heard about some film crews coming to the reservation, but the details remained vague. She also remembered that Kalani was being cast in his first feature film, which was some sort of alternate history story based on a popular book that had come out a few years ago. The critics were predicting this heralded the start of his booming career as an action-adventure hero. Somebody had even called him “the ethnic Orlando Bloom.” Mary Ellen knew a lot of actors had success on television before moving to the big screen.
Lost in speculation, she almost missed his next conversational gambit. Then it dawned on her — “You want me to go to this casting call in Chinle?”
He did. It seems they needed an Indian beauty in a minor but significant role, and were still looking for an “original.” The gist of his flood of words was that Neville Kalani thought she, Mary Ellen Newkirk, would fit the part! Her first reaction was disbelief.
“I’m Navajo through my mother,” she said, “but Dad’s a white guy from New Jersey.”
In no short order, Neville Kalani demonstrated how he’d succeeded in Hollywood. He marched in the station, had a lively dialog with her brother Frank, and emerged from the building triumphant. “Your brother is going to call your cousin to help him here. He wants you to call home when you get to Chinle, and keep checking in. Do you have your cell?”
Before she could blink, Mary Ellen finished pumping the gas, and then flew into the station with Neville’s twenty-dollar bill in her hand. She threw it at Frank, ran to the back room and grabbed up her purse. Her iPhone rattled satisfactorily when she shook the bag. She stopped at one of the cold cases and pulled out two Diet Pepsis, mouthed a thank you to her brother, and ran happily out to the Porsche. Kalani was waiting by the passenger door to hand her in.
The drive to Chinle passed in a daze to Mary Ellen. Here she was, seated in an expensive sports car that drew everybody’s eyes, chatting with a gorgeous film star. Furthermore, he seemed to be intensely enjoying their outing. He’d turn his awesome profile toward her from time to time, an infectious grin on his face.
She was almost angry when they reached the left turn to the Canyon de Chelly Monument entrance. A mass of trucks, campers, and shiny RVs flooded the parking lot, and a harassed looking ranger waved the Porsche through the entrance. The car barely reached the parking lot when a small horde of people came flying out to intercept them. Mary Ellen eyed a dark, distinguished-looking man in a cap, a skinny guy with waved blonde hair, and another fellow who wore an odd Hawaiian shirt and looked like he was repressing a guffaw.
The dark man said, “Ah, you found her! Princess Sistina to the life. Good work, where was she?”
“Wandering the vales of Monument Valley, I suspect,” sniffed the blonde guy.
“No, I found her at a gas station up the road,” Neville laughed, helping her out of the car. Then, taking her firmly by the arm, he towed Mary Ellen toward an Airstream trailer parked in a row with two others. The men followed them like overeager collie dogs. Meanwhile, a small crowd of reporters and cameramen began shouting at them, held back by a fence and another ranger who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was.
(To be continued)
It was a perfect July day, topped with just enough humidity to hint that it was also monsoon season. Mary Ellen dragged out the chaise lawn chair and placed it in the shaded side of the building. Now she could loll as she watched out for customers. Her brother was running things inside the station/mart. She was in charge of helping anybody who wanted full service at the pumps.
Most folks, especially locals, used self-service. But this was the vacation season and some tourists were likely to stop by since this particular gas station with convenience shop was well cared for and appealing. All in all, however, Mary Ellen figured this was probably not going to be an exciting day. If she wanted excitement, she needed to resort to her day dreams.
Because, to be honest, nothing much ever happened in Many Farms, Arizona. There were about four hundred homes scattered through the town. Over eighty-eight percent were Navajo. Mary Ellen’s dad, Joe, was one of the seven percent of white residents. Joe Armstrong had grown up back east. In Vietnam, however, he’d served with two Navajo cousins. After the war, Joe came out on a visit and, after meeting Betty Goodluck, he never left. Mary Ellen wrinkled her nose while contemplating her mother mentally; her father liked to tease her that she had a long way to go to catch up with Betty’s beauty.
Beauty! Mary Ellen was all in favor of beauty. There was lovely scenery to be found in the area, and down the highway all of fifteen miles was Canyon de Chelly. But beauty did not always provide excitement, and on the whole, days like these in town could be downright boring.
She was going to the local community college, but working hard on her grades to transfer. She’d applied for a scholarship to ASU, but wouldn’t know anything for a few months yet. Stifling a yawn, Mary Ellen contemplated an exciting future once she was freed from the bonds of reservation and family.
She didn’t mean to be ungrateful, but there was so much to see and do out in the big world. Sometimes when she watched programs on television she’d feel an internal itching to be away from all that was too familiar. Recently, however, she also picked up a sense of unhappiness in the themes of real world and fantasy stories. A practical girl, she realized her loving family and everyday environment insulated her from things she’d be happier not knowing about. Nevertheless, Mary Ellen was ready for a taste of something…new.
A sleek red convertible pulled into the court section for full service. Mary Ellen jumped out of the lounge chair and ran lightly over to the vehicle. Despite the coat of red dust clinging to its body, she noted it was a 2014 Porsche Boxter, a real luxury model. She always looked at cars first, and then their inhabitants. When she finally turned her attention to the driver, who was grinning widely at her awestruck expression, she did a double-take.
One of the most popular shows on television in the last few years was called “Wonder Quest” and starred a dashing young man who traveled through time battling various forces of evil. The guy behind the wheel of the Porsche resembled the actor: long black hair spilling over his shirt collar and a bronzed skin Polynesian face graced with high cheekbones and an eloquent nose. Mary Ellen had strong reactions to male noses, but this man couldn’t possibly be Neville Kalani, could he? Not in Many Farms!
(Continued next week)
On the pretext of getting sodas from the machine inside the station, Luis wandered over to Andre. The big man scratched his head and sighed. “Bad hombres. They were parked behind her car and waiting. Angel ran them off with his wrench, helped by a tribal cop who came out of the pueblo to see what was going on.” As he finished speaking, a police car from Ohkay Owingeh pulled into the station lot.
Teresa ran out to hug the young man who emerged and dragged him over to where Luis stood with two Coke cans in hand. Pouring out a voluble stream of Tewa, she conversed with the cop and then turned to Luis. “This is Randy. He works with my cousin Raul. He says those men were real outlaws and he’s relieved I didn’t have to deal with them.”
Luis and the cop shook hands. They exchanged polite words and Teresa walked Randy to his patrol car, where they switched back into another animated conversation in Tewa. When Teresa returned to the chairs where Luis sat, her eyes were sparkling as if she’d gotten an idea. She said nothing, however, and accepted the Coke he offered her.
Andre found them about twenty minutes later. “You’re lucky, missy. These cars are so electronically rigged these days, but the part is available from the Lexus dealer in Santa Fe. They’re gonna get someone to drive it up, so maybe we’re looking at another one to two hours, tops. All done, then.”
Teresa thanked him, and Luis smiled at her enthusiasm. A few minutes later, after Andre had left, she turned to him. “What about if we go to the casino? They’ve got a nice café there.”
Feeling somewhat obligated, since those guys were still somewhere around, Luis agreed. He hoped she wasn’t planning on playing the slots. He didn’t have enough money to gamble with, but then he realized she probably was fairly well paid. He’d just sit and watch her play.
He drove her to the big building in the middle of the town with its bright lights. Inside, Luis was startled. While most of the visitors remained wrapped up in focused engagement with the various gaming machines, the staff inside the casino had roused themselves to rush up and greet Teresa like some visiting celebrity. Not all of them were Indians, either. One young blonde man excitedly smooched her cheek. Teresa greeted them calmly while making her way in a determined manner through the casino floor. Luis, too, received his share of smiles and nods, which had not been his experience previously. Bemused, he followed in Teresa’s wake.
As they reached her destination, Luis saw Randy, looking less than inconspicuous in his uniform, talking with a big, broadly built man outside an interior office. The big man sighted Teresa and threw out his arms. She rushed into them, exploding again into a chatter of Tewa. After a few moments, the man pulled away and stepped over to offer his hand to Luis, who knew enough to give a soft handshake and await the man’s salutation.
“So, I hear you gave our Teresa some help today?”
“Yes, sir. I’m glad I was able to help her get her car fixed.”
“I hear you’re an accountant. Got some experience out in California, eh?”
“Yes.” This couldn’t be the same man who’d brushed him off so firmly the other week, could it?
“Well,” the man said, hitching up his belt around his expansive waist, “our accountant has to go back to his college in Colorado next month. We need a replacement, so would you like to give it a trial, then?”
Luis stared at his smiling face and back at Teresa, whose grin defied him to protest, and said, “Yes, sir. When do you want me to start?”
