As soon as he stopped speaking, motorcycle engine gunning and the roar of motors could be heard. She dropped down gracefully and joked, “At least you aren’t like my cousins. They have litter all over their car floors.”
The group of bikers and low riders passed them noisily, honking and swerving in pretend aggressive moves. One of the bikers shouted something at a driver in an old white car and made a big show of waving his fist at the gray-haired driver. His companions laughed uproariously, pleased at the show of menace they’d made.
When the woman sat up, her face was pale. “Omigad, you weren’t kidding, were you? I have to thank you so much.” She craned her head around to look back and then stared straight at Luis. “My name is Teresa Santiago.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Luis mumbled, flushing under her close regard. “Like I said, I’ve seen you on that channel. You been there a long time?”
“Nearly six months now. I’ve been working my way home slowly over the last few years. Gigs in Phoenix, then El Paso. I like it in Albuquerque.”
“Home is the pueblo?” Luis queried. She didn’t look particularly Indian to him.
“My mother’s home. She passed about six years ago and my dad two years earlier. Mom’s family have taken over on me. I’ve got tons of aunts and uncles and so many cousins we could run our own radio station.” The smile she gave him when straight to his heart. “What about you?”
Luis stumbled a bit, rusty at first and then gaining in purpose. He told her about finishing college in California, washing out of a job in La Jolla, and his Aunt Fatima’s call to help her in her last months. He didn’t say much about that, leaving unspoken the hard days of watching out for her in the big hospital in Albuquerque, caring for the old dog that expired three days after she did, and how she’d gotten affairs in order legally and left him all her property.
“But you still don’t have a job?” Teresa asked, her eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses.
Luis pulled into the forecourt of Andre’s gas station and body shop. “No, I’m just about out of options for this town. Guess I’ll have to look in Santa Fe.”
Andre was a big man, an Eastern European transplant who’d met Lupe some years ago. She worked as a cook in one of local restaurants. They’d been married ten years and had a couple of blonde kids. He came forward now with his hand out, grabbing Luis’s shoulder and shaking him affectionately.
“What do you bring me here?” he bellowed, looking at Luis’s companion. “You know I’m an old married man!”
Luis took him aside to explain the breakdown. Andre listened intently, and then called one of his mechanics over. Angel worked out and did amateur wrestling. In short order, Angel drove off in the tow truck, while Andre urged Luis and Teresa to sit in the garage on chairs tucked in a back corner.
They talked and talked, finding connections in stories about bad bosses, road trips, and favorite movies. Teresa had spent ten unfruitful months in L.A. a few years back, and this provided fodder for more discussion of California. At one point, Angel returned with the Lexus in tow. Luis noted the lively conversation that ensued between the mechanic and his boss.
(Continued next week)
In just a minute Luis was headed out on 84 toward Chili. He found the breakdown at the cross road that led east into the Pueblo of Ohkay Owingeh, although he found its old name of San Juan more comfortable. The silver-gray car was an expensive Lexus and the woman standing next to it, looking hot and frustrated, would make any man look twice. She’d done her best to muffle her appearance, wearing scuffed jeans and an oversized tee shirt. Luis made a U-turn and slide off onto the shoulder behind the Lexus.
The woman looked less than pleased to see him approach, although he did so with an air of diffidence. “Oh please,” she rolled her eyes, “you’re the fourth one to stop and offer help to the poor little lady.”
Instinctively, he switched into Spanish, “Can’t they help you at the pueblo? I assume you were coming from there?”
She’d been fiddling with her cell phone and answered almost without thought in English, “They all saw me off and then got in their truck to go to Embudo.” As soon as she replied, she startled and then narrowed her eyes. “Why are you speaking to me in Spanish?”
Luis, embarrassed, lowered his eyes as he spoke. “You looked real familiar. Then I remember I’ve seen you on that Spanish-speaking television station out of Albuquerque.” He didn’t add that the television was about all he’d for company these past few months.
“You recognize me dressed like this?” she asked skeptically, still speaking English.
All of a sudden, Luis stiffened. His premonitions, when he had them, always proved very acute. “Please, miss, I don’t want to be an alarmist but you should know there are some men, bad men, and they were talking at the restaurant down the road about how they’d like to help you. But you don’t want their kind of help . . . ” He let his last words fade off and stared at her hard, hoping his earnest gaze would transmit his sense of urgency.
She studied him for a moment, then reached up and slid her sunglasses down onto her face. “Thank you. Do you know a garage around here where I could get a tow?”
After she locked her vehicle, Luis escorted her to his car, opened the door and watched her slide in. When he was seated and pulling the Chevy onto the road, he said, returning to English, “Yes, my friend Andre has one just outside town on 285.”
“I couldn’t get my roadside service for a while, and then they told me I’d forgotten to pay last month.” She made a face. “One month I slip, and they won’t help?”
Luis’s eyes caught a glimmer of silver down the road. “Miss, please don’t get mad, but can you bend down, lower yourself like you dropped something? Those guys are heading toward us, I don’t want one of them catching a glimpse of you.”
(Continued next week)
Luis ate his Blake’s Lotaburger slowly, wondering if he should have ordered French fries. He knew he had to conserve his money. A noisy group of bikers and lowriders burst into the store. They were Latino like him, but their attention was all for each other. They settled into the large circular booth next to him, and attempted to outdo each other with obscene jokes and pretend jabs with tattooed hands.
When it was clear they were going to add nothing to the tone of everyday Española, Luis let his mind wander elsewhere. He had his aunt’s house, a lot of corded wood for the forthcoming winter, his car, and about $250 in cash. Nothing else. The van he’d used to move his few belongings had cost more than he’d realized. Fortunately, Aunt Fatima had left him enough furniture to get by.
His feet hurt though from trudging through the town, stopping at every place he thought might have employment. Nobody was hiring. He couldn’t even get the casino boss to look up from his desk.
“Not hiring.”
Now he’d have to try Los Alamos or Santa Fe, and that meant gasoline money. Receiving his aunt’s house had been a blessing, but he needed a job. Next to him, the blustering suddenly died down. Luis thought the momentary silence felt more threatening than the previous swearing and clowning around.
“Say,” one of the bikers said, a short squat guy with teardrop tattoos. “Did you see the fox whose car was broke down up the road? She sure looked hot — and frustrated, too!”
Noisy hoots. “A gal like that ought to be grateful to some guys who help her out, don’t cha think?” The table erupted with more laughs, innuendos, and a sense of satisfaction.
“Hey, no rush,” said the biggest guy in the bunch, who might be the leader. “It’s f-ing hot out there and I want a milkshake. The bitch’ll wait.”
Luis didn’t want to stay around and hear the rest. The last thing he needed was trouble in his new town and some of the guys seemed local. On the other hand, he sure felt sorry for the girl. Outside, the heat steamed off the hood of his old Chevy Cavalier. He opened the door and sat down. He didn’t need to turn the car to the north, but the impulse to do so was overwhelming.
(Continued next week)
“So what is the message I’ve come here today to tell you?” Tim asked in a level voice.
“The tall boy in the front row shouted out, “Don’t text and drive!”
“Yeah. And I’m here to let you know that all it takes is one moment of inattention in a moving vehicle and your life can change forever.”
“Did you get punished?” the tall boy asked, leaning forward in his seat.
“Oh, yes.” Tim pulled out the last photo: a family shot of the Seevers family, wearing broad grins, posed in front of a Christmas tree. “I was charged with involuntary manslaughter, and did sixty days at High Desert State Prison in Susanville, California. My lawyers got me a deal with my case judge and Bradley Seever’s parents.”
Tim paused at this point, wishing he’d kept some of the soda. His throat felt tight and dry.
“I have been given five years’ probation. During this time I will travel the country and present my story to middle and high schools, colleges, and social groups. Half of my income from any work I do will go to a foundation in the Seever family’s name.”
“Will you run again?” another boy asked, who was seated next to the tall kid.
“As a convicted felon, my employment options are limited. I probably will never be able to compete for the Olympics again.” The auditorium was hushed, a few kids still crying, others staring back at him with hard flat eyes. Tim took a deep breath.
“Do you understand from my story what you risk by texting while driving?”
Many nodded, but the tall boy raised his hand. “What about your girlfriend? She was the one texting you.”
Thoughts flashed into his mind about what had happened after that fatal encounter. Sam’s lawyers threatening him, telling him not to drag her into the situation, since it “wouldn’t be good for her career.” The e-mail he received just before his processing by California Corrections. She said she’d been advised to stay away from him and hoped he’d understand. The article his sister sent him in jail about how Samantha Meiko was currently dating one of the hunky young British actors featured in a newly released Marvel Comics superheroes film.
“The fault was mine.” Lots of whispering behind hands. “Any questions?” Now his chest was tight, but he attempted a smile of encouragement. Maybe some questions and answers give-and-take would loosen the cramp around his heart.
Silence. It seemed to stretch, and into the quiet Principal Merton shuffled onto the stage, ready to take charge. Yet, it seemed to Tim that the older man’s throat seemed uncharacteristically tight. A whooshing noise started from the back of the stage, and Mrs. Brandon, elbows askew, ran out to grab the microphone. Tim handed it to her silently. She always knew when to throw herself into a situation.
Mrs. Brandon had come to the region years ago with her young physician husband who was working off med school debts by working for the Indian Health Service. Somehow, they’d stayed put, even though most white doctors went on to lucrative practices elsewhere. Mrs. Brandon taught English, and could be counted on to be a bit melodramatic.
Holding the microphone in what seemed like a parody of a rock singer, she called out, “Students! Haven’t we learned something important, here?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Tim has come back from the wide world to tell you about the ultimate way to screw yourself. Something any of us could do.” She glared down into the audience. “Tim didn’t mean to do so, but he KILLED those people. Every night he goes to sleep he has the memory of their faces to live with.”
She placed one hand on her hip, the other still grasped around the microphone. “So, we are not interested, any of us, in getting screwed, right? Seems like that’s already happened to a lot of people, right?” Some ragged shouts sounded from the back. “Because we all are Americans, right? That true, Diné?”
“Yeah!” screamed a majority of the room, fists pumped into the air.
“That right, African Americans?”
“Yeah!” shouted Tim and Ed Beamish, whose dad worked on the local pipeline, their arms waving wildly.
“Anybody else?” Mrs. Brandon bellowed.
“Us Apaches!” shouted a skinny boy wearing Harry Potter round glasses. Laughter all around the auditorium, and those who weren’t Indian threw their arms up.
“Okay,” Mrs. Brandon said. “You think on what it must have cost Tim to come here today and share with you a mistake that has changed this life, and you promise him that you will never, ever do anything like what he did, all right?” She turned and held out the microphone to Tim.
Yet, before he could reach what she offered, the dynamics in the auditorium changed. Rising in almost perfect synchronicity, the audience started to clap, slowly, steadily — as if they were asking for an encore. One by one, the students rose from their seats and roared “We Promise!”
Tim stared helplessly into the woman’s eyes, shocked when her face recovered its usual calm. But her eyes were sparkling and then — she winked at him. Tim knew now he’d been set up and splendidly. Without thought, he threw his arms around her and received a hug, feeling all the time like he’d been thrown a life preserver.
When the boisterous students filed out the room, Tim made his way to one of the back doors where Principal Merton stood talking to Jeff Ketch. His probation officer clouted Tim on the shoulder, “Good job, there.”
“I got some help,” Tim said, still in a daze.
“Maybe here’s some more,” Merton said. “Sam Chee up at Tsaile says you should go see him about coaching this summer. Says the work can be flexible while you’re touring around lecturing.”
“Let’s go outside,” Tim begged, clutching the fragile hope that had suddenly bloomed. “I think I can make it now. I want to go out and look all around, straight ahead — and see nothing but blue sky.”
[Apologies and thanks to Johnny Nash for the ending]
“I’ve come back home today to send you a very important message. It isn’t what you think it might be. Yes, you know it’s crucial to give everything your best shot, but what I want to talk about is something you probably don’t even think twice about. How many of you here have cell phones?”
Two-thirds of the audience raised their hands. Puzzled looks began to appear on faces.
“I suspect you have heard that I’ve been dating Coeur d’Alene actress Samantha Meiko?”
Cheers erupted and the tall boy in front shouted out, “She’s hot!” Others near him laughed and bobbed their heads up and down.
Inwardly, Tim winced. “Well, what I have to tell you is this. Me and Samantha, we’ve done a lot of arguing. People who date often do.” More heads nodded sagely. This was something they all knew about from older brothers and sisters.
“This last March, we had a big blow-up. I’d been in Los Angeles, but had to drive back to Vegas to film a commercial. Sam was really angry at me because she wanted me to stay an extra day and accompany her to a big party at some director’s house.” She’d gotten the misguided idea that this director would want to hire Tim for a part in his upcoming action adventure film. He’d no interest in acting; his life was about the running, and later when he got older, maybe coaching.
“I was driving through a mountain pass and it was getting near dusk, the light was fading fast. Sam kept calling and then texting me when I wouldn’t pick up my cell. I should have thrown it out the window.”
The auditorium had grown quiet, very quiet save for the slight rustle of kids squirming in their seats. They’d realized what he had to tell them wasn’t going to be something pleasant.
“She’d texted me fifteen times,” Tim said in a level voice. “Her threats had grown very dramatic. I kept reading the texts instead of watching where I was going.”
You could have heard a pin drop in the room.
“When call number sixteen came in, I was in a rage. I grabbed up the phone and started to text her something short and impolite.” He tried to grin, but felt his mouth made more of a grimace than anything else. “I wasn’t looking hard at the road and I veered into the oncoming lane. My Ford Expedition crashed headlong into a Honda Accord.”
He lifted the hands that had been gripping the podium and bent down to a briefcase he’d carried with him. The top was open so he could dip in and take out four 11 x 14 inch color photographs. He held up the first one.
“The car I hit belonged to Bradley Seever, a local firefighter in the town I’d just passed through. He was thirty-four.” A second photo replaced the first. “His wife, Renee was with him in the passenger side. The Honda was totaled and began to burn from the ruptured gas tank. I managed to get out of my vehicle and pull the kid in the back free from the wreckage.”
Tim lifted up the third photo and moved it in an arc back and forth. “His name was Ronnie Seever, and he’d just turned seven. I got him out of the car but he was already gone. All three of them were gone. Just like that.” Tim snapped his fingers abruptly, and small squeaks issued from trembling mouths. A cluster of girls sitting together started crying. Even a few boys brushed their eyes while assuming furiously intent frowns.
Tim Begay thought his ears wouldn’t stop ringing. The cheering outside the high school had been almost deafening. The noise was an echo of previous times — times that Tim was sure were long past, now. Once he would have gloried in those cheers, but today they added to the knot in his gut. Nobody would be celebrating once he’d had his say.
He took a slug of the warm Coke, thinking it ironic that liquid close to battery acid should soothe his cramped stomach. The crowd out in the auditorium was expecting a hero to speak. What he had to say, though, wasn’t what they’d particularly like to hear.
He’d been a golden boy, all right. One of Tohatchi’s own, whose boyhood prowess in running had taken him to the Olympics in Sochi and beyond. By high school, it was clear Tim would be heading off reservation. He had a short stint at ASU, before the professional handlers elbowed his longtime coach aside, and groomed Tim to adorn a box of Wheaties. Being Native American was a plus, too; it made his story more romantic. Indian boy leaves rural poverty for the international spotlight as one of the fastest men on earth. When he won the New York Marathon two years ago, displacing the usual winners from Africa, the media went wild.
If only his life outside running had kept the same concentration. Principal Merton walked into the backstage antechamber with another can of soda. It looked nice and cold, with condensation running off the top and sides. His creased face broke into a sympathetic smile.
“Getting butterflies, Tim?”
“Sure. I hate to think how I’m letting them down.”
The older man’s face took on a fierce intensity. “You got something they need to hear. I’m all in favor of progress, but some tools need to be used with caution in mind.”
Tools! Tim knew he had nobody to blame but himself. In his worse moments, he blamed Samantha, too. Growing up, he’d kept himself focused. But falling in love with a contentious woman had been possibly the biggest mistake of his life. The newspapers had enjoyed their relationship. Sam had been Indian, also, from Oregon. She had broken into Hollywood through a combination of sheer drive, exotic beauty, and the all-important combination of luck and timing. Her role in a popular network series brought lots and lots of media attention.
The sound of introductions, since the Principal had gone on stage, and heavy applause cued Tim back to his immediate surroundings, his well-worn old high school. He tossed the soda can into a nearby wastebasket and plodded out onto the stage. A sea of kids’ faces stared up at him, all smiling. A boy in the front row, a little taller than the others, stuck his thumb up from a clenched fist.
Tim tested the microphone at the podium and thanked everyone for their attendance. Good thing they couldn’t see his shaking hands. Best to get it out…
(to be continued next week)
Kevin remembered the mingled frustration and excitement of steering his old Schwinn bicycle over ruts and gritty gravel. He was sure he’d never make it, but there’d been something in the way that Vernon spoke that made him push and pedal with commendable force. Luckily, the man was negotiating the torturous track with care and not speed. He flew over a grassy hump and landed at the side of the Mercedes, making sure not to collide with the passenger side door.
The car had just reached the end of the dirt track and was ready to turn onto the main road. North, thunderclouds were building over the Hopi mesas, an always promising sign. The white lady rolled down her window to look at him. Kevin dug into the pocket of jeans and pulled out the earring, waving it at her. “You forgot this, ma’am!”
Her delight was manifest. Kevin found himself tortured now with a series of questions: what was his name, how old was he, did he play sports, was he looking forward to the holidays?
He answered as best he could, got his hair rumpled, and then the window went up, the lady blew him a kiss, and the Mercedes turned right, going south to the interstate.
Kevin would recall this event in December, when Vernon got him a new six-gear racing bicycle from Flagstaff; his stepfather said the money had come from Mr. and Mrs. Reese who lived in Chicago and bought Vernon’s work. Mrs. Reece had been so pleased to get her earring back that she wanted Kevin to have a holiday treat.
A white Chevrolet with California license plates pulled into the lot next to him, disgorging two tanned, raucously laughing couples. Their radio blared at top volume, before being cut off by one of the men. Kevin watched them saunter into the store, their arrival silencing the elderly Navajo men on the bench quite effectively. This intrusion from the outside world brought Kevin back to the present. Shash curled himself into a tighter ball on the passenger seat and gave a contented whuff.
He tore the envelope open and pulled out a neatly typed letter with several photocopied sheets attached. Placing the letter on the steering wheel, Kevin scanned it quickly, then returned to the beginning, reading and rereading. His shock was so acute, he was barely aware of noisy tourists returning to the car, and when it roared off in a plume of privileged gear shifts and exhaust. The elders started up an animated spate of remarks directed at this departure.
Kevin only came to when Shirl emerged from the building, stopping on the stoop to stretch her back. Spotting Kevin still in his pickup, she crunched over the gravel to his vehicle.
“Hey, what’s up? I thought you’d be long gone by now,” she teased.
Kevin lifted the letter off the steering wheel with one hand and gestured to it with his other. “Take a look at this, will you? You don’t think it’s a hoax?”
Ever curious, she grabbed the letter up and pored over it, one lip dropping down as she read. Slowly, her face changed and she shrieked, “Omygad! You should be dancing! This has to be from one of Vern’s collectors!”
Kevin shook his head as if in a dream. “We didn’t publicize his passing. Just a note in the Gallup Independent.”
“Honey, that doesn’t matter. Vernon was a big name in his field, so word gets around. You know you had people passing through here all the time on their way to see him. Why, some of them were Middle Eastern and Japanese!”
Kevin took the letter from her grasp and looked down at it. He knew he had to get home and tell his mother. The lawyer who wrote the letter informed him that the last will and testament of Mrs. Carine Reese, of Chicago and Estes Park, had included a bequest to Kevin Oliver Nakai of Nakai Ranch, Holbrook, Navajo County, Arizona in loving memory of his stepfather. This bequest had been processed within a week of Mrs. Reece’s death last month. No details were given as to the manner of her passing, but the lawyer said she acted with sound mind and the approval of her executors.
And the money! Enough to turn the ranch around, pay off every creditor, and even make some improvements. Enough extra to take his mother down to the Mayo Clinic in Fountain Hills right away. Kevin accepted Shirl’s enthusiastic hug, and climbed back into his cab still somewhat numbly. Shirl waved him off, her eyes bright and a knowing grin on her face.
Kevin remembered that the squaw dance was set to be held next weekend. He’d buy a new sports shirt down at Dillard’s before then, since he was back in the running now.
He finished his drink, put down the empty can, and looked down at the letter still in his hand. Shash had resettled himself in the passenger seat since nothing seemed to be happening. Kevin broke open the bag with the jerky and fed the old dog a few pieces. While he slurped away, Kevin looked out over the wide vista of rolling hills, the mesas to the north an indistinct shade of orangey-red. The rush of traffic from I-40 could still be heard as a murmur; the store was only a mile away.
His mother had relied on Vernon’s business acumen to help her run the ranch. But he’d gotten real sick so fast and the months ticked on. In desperation, his mother had signed papers for a line of equity. Kevin wondered if this letter was a notification of payments due or, more likely, past due. There was about three hundred dollars left in the ranch account. Most likely, he’d have to declare bankrupt and sell up.
Vernon had been a font of sayings, some traditional in nature and others culled from a scattered education supplemented by extensive book reading. Kevin was always amazed at the Shakespeare quotes this quiet Hopi guy could produce. Now he thought about one that had no special attribution. The incident that prompted this thought had happened a while ago, when Kevin was twelve. A wealthy white couple had driven up to the ranch. Kevin had stayed out of the house, knowing that they were undoubtedly collectors come to see what Vernon had made. Or maybe they’d already ordered something and were picking it up. Collectors liked doing that.
Kevin had been admiring their white Mercedes, but had retreated to the porch to read a comic. The couple emerged, the man holding a fine carving reverently in his hands. Vernon came out to supervise their wrapping of the object in swaths of bubble wrap. Finally, all was done, goodbyes were said, and the couple took off in their car, bumping over the dirt driveway toward the road. Vernon went back into the house. Out of the corner of his eye, Kevin spotted something glittering on the ground near where the car had been parked. He went investigate and discovered the lady had dropped one of her diamond earrings.
Scooping it up, he ran into the house and told Vernon what he’d found. Jumping up and down, he said, “Boy, I bet we’d get a lot for this in one of the pawnshops.”
Vernon fixed him with a scowl, handed the gleaming gem back to him and said, “We don’t profit from other people’s losses.” He then ordered the boy onto his bike. “See if you can catch up with them before they hit the main road.”
The ramshackle building had once been a trading post, but it served as a convenience store and post office now. Tucked around a corner from the roar of Interstate 40, the road led for miles up Route 77 past small communities to end in 264 on its way to Keams Canyon and the Hopi Mesas.
Not that many tourists wanted to make the long trek on a narrow road, so the store served locals. When Kevin got out of his pickup, he saw a couple of men sitting on the bench in front. They were laughing over something in the newspaper. He nodded to them politely as he made his way into the post office. Behind the counter, Bertie Simms smiled a greeting.
“You got an official-looking letter, Kevin. Hope it’s good news!”
He didn’t know whether to grin or grimace. No point in belaboring the obvious fact that U.S. Post Office employees weren’t supposed to comment on personal mail, Simms had been handing out the mail in east Holbrook for as long as Kevin could remember. Nor was there probably any point in minding that Bertie, along with everybody else in the area, knew Kevin’s ranch was almost on the skids.
What was that song he liked to play on his iPod? A British band and they had this line… “Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way…” Well, he was hanging on, alright. Even if he wasn’t English at all. Simms placed two things into his hands: a circular for the granary over in Winslow and a heavy white envelope. Kevin peered down at the return address — Millman, Oster and Scheck, with a street address in Denver. Nobody he knew.
Nodding his thanks to Simms, who waited avidly for him to tear the thing open, Kevin headed over to the store side. He bought a loaf of bread, some beef jerky for the dog who waited patiently in the truck’s cab, and a Pepsi for himself. Half-hearted banter with Shirl, they’d gone to high school together, and back out to the pickup.
Shash’s chin lay on the sill of the rolled-down driver’s side window. He whined slightly and leapt over to the passenger seat as Kevin got in. He gave the dog his treat and cracked open the pull-top on the Pepsi, took a long slug, and flattened the envelope out on the steering wheel. It was a mild day in early May and Kevin realized he had no incentive to head back home. Chores were done for now.
A letter from strangers didn’t happen every day. Life had been hard and unexciting since he’d come back from the military. Kevin had been grateful for that. His two tours of duty had been rough: first Afghanistan and then Iraq. But when the letter from his mother had come, he’d finished his time and gotten a discharge. Even then, it had been too late. His stepfather had passed away in the Flagstaff hospital. Kevin’s throat burned and he shut his eyes, reviewing the happy times he’d had with Vernon.
Some people thought it odd that a Hopi man had married a Navajo woman, but there were plenty of such unions if you really looked around. Lots of kids in his high school had dated people from different tribes. Really traditional people didn’t go in for such things, but that wasn’t as many people as there used to be.
One of the really remarkable qualities that Vernon possessed was his patience. He didn’t yell, drank one beer a month, and when you wanted to talk to him he’d sit and listen. Wouldn’t even ask questions until you’d finished speaking. That was a lot more than you could say for Kevin’s mother’s people. His two uncles were always shooting their mouths off.
Then there was Vernon’s skill as a carver. He made beautiful katsinas from cottonwood, and collectors from all over sought his creations. An original Vernon Calumptewa work cost thousands of dollars. Vernon didn’t churn them out either; he had to be inspired.
By the time Kevin had gotten home things had really deteriorated on the ranch. Bad weather, sales of cows that should have been kept, fence repairs never made — they all added up. His mother, her own ailments flaring up, was exhausted from looking after Vernon. Her losing battle had demoralized her completely. Kevin took over, glad for something significant to do, but all his labors seemed to be in vain.
Sally had e-mailed her the evening of her dismissal. She begged Laura to come back and see her at her new employer’s establishment. Sally said she had a surprise for Laura. “Time for some good luck,” she’d claimed. Laura agreed and had driven back, all her possessions thrown into the Subaru. She’d had a few days to reach Window Rock, Sally informed her.
Laura had gone the scenic route, stopping off at Oak Creek Canyon, then taking the road up and over the Hopi Mesas. Last night she stayed in the commercial hotel outside the entrance to Canyon de Chelly. Today, she lingered too long at the overlooks, imagining all the “what ifs” in her life.
Boom! The front wheels of the car hit pavement. A handful of street lights illuminated the sign that told her she’d reached civilization, or rather, that she’d reached Sawmill. Laura drove the remaining ten miles in a daze, barely taking in Fort Defiance a she passed through and made the remaining handful of miles to Window Rock.
When she reached the parking lot for the Navajo Nation Inn and cut the engine off, Laura realized she had been shaking. Even now, her hands trembled as she withdrew the ignition key and threw the key chain into her purse. She remained seated in the car, watching the lit windows of the hotel, a couple walking to their car, a few rez dogs trotting away from a back kitchen door. She savored the warmth, the activity, the reminders of everyday life.
Sally flung herself on Laura as soon as she entered the foyer, running out from her hostess station. She hugged her and clucked over her, drawing her forward at the same time. “Where have you been? I expected you an hour ago!”
“I took a shortcut.”
“Not that back road?” Sally cried. “Honey, you could have gotten stuck there.” She straightened up, turned to Laura, and took her arm. “It’s a good thing your surprise agreed to stick around.”
He was seated alone in a booth inside the restaurant, coffee cup on the counter before him. When he saw them approach, he got out of the seat and stood, his dark brown eyes smiling but anxious. Laura felt like all the breath had been knocked out of her, and her legs, tensed from an hour’s fraught driving threatened to give way. How long had it been since she’d seen Carl Nez?
“Hi Laura,” said the man of her dreams, the one who had disappeared. “Looks like we have ourselves a second chance.”
