The
old blue Toyota buzzes through the Hopi Reservation south on Route 87. Behind the cracked black steering wheel
Vince watches the road. The early
morning land looks holy. Sacred
mountains have lost their heads in white smoke clouds. The sun creates a miracle on the eastern
horizon, red hands of light touching a purple mesa. In the rearview mirror Vince sees sagebrush
dancing in the wake of the car’s little wind.
He’s taking his sister to Flagstaff for the flight to Phoenix. From there she’ll fly with her family home
to L.A.
She
sits in the passenger seat, her arms folded under her breasts. She wears a long-sleeve white blouse tucked
into a pair of designer jeans. Below the
cuffs her new cowboy boots rest stiffly on the floorboard. Her profile is a line drawing against white
paper light that fills the car. Over the
years Vince has forgotten how pretty she is.
Next to her he feels homely, though people have always compared
them. Even Arnold Sekaquaptewa, the
janitor at the school, noticed the resemblance.
Carol smiles through the car window at western clouds. “It’s raining over there,” she says.
Vince
follows her gaze to dark fingers of rain.
“It’s virga.”
“What’s
that?”
“Rain
that evaporates before reaching the ground.”
Across the flat plane of desert, away from the
little car, a beam of sun breaks through the clouds to spotlight a large ochre
boulder. The rock looks like the face
of an old man watching the sky. A gaping
crack forms the line of his down-turned mouth.
Two symmetrical holes make eyes.
Above his head two hawks spiral at different heights surveying the
earth for prey.
*
* *
On
the way up yesterday, after hamburgers in Winslow, when the land began to
change and they looked through the windshield across a painted desert floor,
he said, “What do you think?”
The
brief conversation went like this.
“Why
don’t the Indians build on this land?” she said, her eyes wrinkling into
crow’s-feet.
“Why
should they?”
“Do
they use it for anything?”
“Some
dig for uranium,” he said. “They die of
radiation poisoning.”
She
looked at his dark face, then turned away.
*
* *
He
stops for gas at Two Guns, and while he pumps it into the black hole behind the
maroon license plate she goes to the restroom.
He watches after her. When the
tank is full he hooks the nozzle back onto the aluminum pump and carries money
to the attendant inside, who never leaves his chair. He’s an egg-headed man with a dirty white
name tag in the middle of his blue ball cap:
Sam. Sam takes Vince’s money and
says, “Is it going to rain?”
“I
don’t think so,” Vince says. He collects
his change and heads for the men’s room.
There
he walks on toes across a sticky red floor to relieve himself at the solitary
yellow toilet. The sink basin is caked
with rusty dirt, except for a white path the dripping water follows to the
drain. He rinses his hands and face and
is glad to find brown paper towels in the dented white dispenser, though lunch
bags are more absorbent. He shoots them
into a green plastic wastebasket.
Outside,
Carol finishes raking a squeegee across the car’s front window. A wind of guilt blows over him. He meant to say it when he picked her up at
the airport yesterday, but he waited. In
the lounge she gave him an honest hug.
“Good to see you, Vinny,” she said.
At the car she said, “I don’t believe it–you’ve kept this thing running
all these years?”
“I
did the windows,” she says now.
“Thanks,”
he says, climbing into the car.
They
turn out onto the interstate and drive west, in sight of the San Francisco
Peaks. The mountains look like blueberry
desserts. When she first saw them, she
said, “This is the place for me. I’m
packing my family up and moving here.”
“Why
do you stay out there?”
“We’re
stuck, Vinny. It’s as simple
as that.”
What
had he expected her to say?–“I love L.A.
You should move back to the city.”
To
which he would have said, “I’m doing what I want.”
“Teaching
Indians English?”
“Why
not?”
“It’s
a dead-end job, Vinny. You have
talent–why don’t you use it?”
He looks over at her now. She smiles at the mountains as they roll
by. He can almost hear himself say the
words, but he doesn’t.
*
* *
Yesterday,
on the ride to his place, they saw an old woman hitchhiking near a dilapidated
shack in Navajo land. She had been
selling jewelry, but had packed it in for the day. She stood at the shoulder of the road, her
withered brown thumb pointing north. He
pulled over. In his mind, Carol said,
“Oh, Vinny, you’re not?”
“People
need rides up here,” he said.
Did
Carol breathe like the air had been polluted when the old woman crawled in
back?
After
they’d gone fifty feet, the woman said, “How about a bracelet for your
wife?” Her voice was like the bleating
of a lamb. The oldest land on earth
couldn’t have been more weathered than her brown face.
“I’m
his sister,” Carol said, turning.
The
old woman shrugged her lips. “Sisters
need bracelets, too.”
“What
do you have?”
The
woman parted her thin blue blanket to reveal a skinny forearm, the twisted limb
of an old mesquite. Five silver
bracelets with polished turquoise stones hung loosely on her wrist.
“How
much for this one?” Carol said, touching the narrowest of the glittering hoops.
“Forty.”
Vince
looked over his shoulder at it. “We’ll
give you twenty,” he said.
“Thirty,”
the woman said. “No less.”
They dropped her off at the road to Seba
Delkai. She came to Vince’s open window
before he drove away. “Twenty-five,” she
said. “That’s a bargain.”
As
soon as they were on the road again, Carol said, “Was it right to haggle with
her?”
Now
it starts, Vince thought. “They’re like
anybody else,” he said. “They get all
they can.”
Carol
said, “You know better than me–you live here.”
Vince
was quiet the rest of the way. The
moment seemed wrong for what he had to say.
Before
they drove to Keams Canyon, he took her to Oraibi, the grandmother of
pueblos. On a yellow oxide mesa at the
center of the world they stood looking down a dirt road into the past. Except for pieces of roofing paper and
clothes flapping like trapped kites on outstretched lines the village could
have been mistaken for a collection of boulders. On a rotting wooden post next to the car an
uneven rectangular sign read: PRIVATE PROPERTY: KEEP OUT!
Vince
said, “It’s the oldest continually-inhabited city in North America.”
“Incredible,”
she said.
“Unlike
some people, they don’t believe in progress.”
“Progress?”
she said. “Is that what you see
happening in the world?”
“No–of
course not.”
In
the gift shop at the tribal museum she eyed the silver bracelets that sparkled
beneath the glass counter. All were too
expensive. In the restaurant they ate
Hopi tacos and drank cokes. She loved
the food. The Native American waiters
and waitresses pleased her. She admired
the view through the picture window overlooking orange mesas.
A group of Hopi boys and girls on a field trip
from the elementary school came into the restaurant, filled the seats at their
assigned tables, and sat quietly until asked to order. They were the most well-behaved children
Carol had ever seen, handsome nut-brown faces with hair as straight and shiny
as raven feathers. “They must be
wonderful people,” she said. “I wish my
kids were this good.”
Along
the road to his trailer she spotted the concrete-block houses the government
had built at the foot of First Mesa.
They’d been empty for years.
Carol said, “Whose houses are these?”
It
was an argument Vince had rehearsed for.
“The
B.I.A. built them for the Indians. They’ve been vacant ever since.”
“I
don’t understand these people. They’d
rather live in houses made of stone.”
“Better
than glass houses.”
“What
do you mean, Vinny?”
“Figure
it out.”
In
reality, Carol had said, “I see why–these houses have no character.”
Arnold
sat on the stoop at the trailer, a twelve-pack next to his dusty black
pants. The top buttons of his white
shirt were open, exposing a red-brown chest.
The brim of his black cowboy hat angled across his wide forehead. When he saw the car he flashed a smile that
flattened his broad nose.
Carol
looked at Vince. “Who’s this?” she said.
“A
friend.”
He
could see what she was thinking.
“Is
he a teacher at the school?”
“He’s
the janitor.”
“The
janitor?”
When
they reached the door, Arnold said, “This is for your sister.” He held the beer out to her.
“Thanks,”
Carol said, taking it. “That’s very kind
of you.”
Inside,
she sat with Arnold at the kitchen table.
Vince put the beer in the refrigerator.
Before he shut the door, he said, “Do you want one, Arnold?”
“No. I have to go to Walpi.”
“I’ll
drive you.”
Carol
said, “Can I go, too?”
“I
thought you’d want to freshen up.”
“I
can freshen up later.”
They
drove along the road to First Mesa. The
blacktop ahead of them bent toward the setting sun, distorted like a stick in
water. Carol smiled at the cloud shadows
in the canyon. Distant plants waving in
the afternoon breeze were as green as the earth was red. A white police car passed in the opposite
direction. The man inside waved. Vince waved back. Arnold said, “Did you hear about his sister?”
“No.”
“She
killed a man in Gallup over a bottle of wine.”
Vince looked at Carol.
“Hey,”
Arnold said, “is there money behind this seat?”
“I’ve
never looked.”
Carol
watched Arnold run his hands along the crack between the cushions. “You’re from Los Angeles,” Arnold said.
Carol
said, “That’s right.”
“I
went there once.”
“What
did you think?”
“Too
many people.”
“I
think so, too.”
“What
do you do there?”
“Take
care of my family.”
“People
do that everywhere,” he said.
As
the car tilted up the dirt road toward the top of the mesa, Carol said, “Can
you drive all the way up, Vinny?”
“Yes.”
“Why
do you call him ‘Vinny’?” Arnold said, leaning forward.
“I’ve
always called him that.”
When
they dropped him off in the parking lot at the pueblo, Arnold said, “See you
later, Vinny.” He disappeared into a
maze of rock apartments, a smile on his brown face.
Before they got out of the car, she said, “I
didn’t think. You don’t call yourself
that anymore.”
“It’s
okay. I go by Vince now.”
He
led her through the village on narrow dirt walks between two-story box
dwellings. The town leaned toward the
mesa edge, and there they stood, looking across a curve of blue earth to the
cloudy mountains near Flagstaff. A cool
wind climbed the cliff face and took their breath away. When they turned to leave, a round Indian
woman in a green dress beckoned for them to enter her house.
“What
does she want?” Carol said.
“To
sell us something.”
They
went in through an ancient beamed doorway.
On a gray plank table in the kitchen an assortment of buff pottery sat. The woman gestured for them to inspect the
vessels. The earthenware was finely
crafted–thin, smooth walls decorated with bold designs. Carol was particularly enchanted by a small
dish-like pot whose central image depicted, in red and black, a phoenix rising
from the ashes. “How much?”
The
woman said, “Twenty.”
Carol
produced the bill from her purse and set it on the table while the woman
wrapped the pot in yellow newspaper.
Carol smiled at the inside of the house.
“Look around,” the woman said, handing her the pot.
They went into the living room, where a small
dark boy stood near a chair. Carol
nodded at him, and he moved behind the chair.
The interior of the residence was clean and well-kept. Dried corn hung on the wall near the fireplace. A red, white and black blanket lay folded
across the mantel. The view from the
window was spectacular. “I’d like this
view from my house,” Carol said. They
could see across the desert to Oraibi, and beyond.
The
woman thanked them when they left. On
the way to the car Carol noticed Indians watching through the windows of their
homes.
“You’d
do the same thing if you lived here,” Vince said.
Carol
said, “Yes, I suppose I would.”
They
made the short drive back to his place in silence.
After
supper they sat on the couch drinking beers and talking about the past. He reminded her of the night he caught her
smoking on Garland Street Hill. She
remembered the time she found a dirty magazine under his mattress and showed it
to their mother. “You hated me for
that,” Carol said, “but you never told about my smoking. I quit a couple years ago.”
“I
didn’t know.”
Silence
made him think of what he planned to say.
“I’m
sorry I only have a day for you, Vinny,” she said. “We didn’t have time to drive up. Tim and the kids wanted to see Phoenix. I hope you understand.”
“I
do.”
“Are
you happy here?”
“Yes.”
“I
don’t see why,” she would have said in the past. “There’s nothing to do.”
Vince thought for a moment, then took her by
the hand, leading her outside. Beneath
an obsidian sky, halved by the white river of the Milky Way, he raised his arms
heavenward. “That’s why,” he said.
Her
mouth opened as she turned her face upward.
The sight of so many stars seemed to frighten her. A coyote barked in the darkness. Lonely light fell through the living room
window and made a yellow square on the dirt at their feet. Carol crossed her arms. “As long as you’re happy,” she said. “That’s what counts.”
Inside,
she unwrapped the phoenix pot and set it on the kitchen table. “I bought this for you.”
Before
the numbness reached his mouth, he said, “Thank you.” He chose that moment to show her the boots,
retrieving them from a bedroom closet.
To her astonished look, he said, “Try them on.”
She
sat in a kitchen chair. “How did you
know my size?”
“Mom
told me in a letter. Arnold
makes them.”
“They’re
beautiful,” she said. “I love
them.” She stood, admiring the
leather work. “Thanks.”
It
was the right time to tell her, while she was this happy. But he couldn’t. Instead, he watched her reflection in the
mirror on the hallway door.
They
went to bed after that, in order to get an early start in the morning.
*
* *
A
red twin-engine plane sinks through a crystal sky toward an asphalt runway,
where it merges with its black shadow.
The motor drones loudly as the pilot taxis to an open berth between two
white planes on a yellow meadow. An
orange wind-direction sock on top of the main hangar looks like a construction
cone knocked sideways in the middle of a road.
The pilot cuts the engine. The
morning wind rustles through the blue pine forest around the airport.
In
the parking lot, Vince pulls Carol’s suitcase out of the back of the car. The trunk looks lonely without it–a spare
tire, a scissors jack, a small red toolbox.
She takes the suitcase from his hand.
“No need to wait, Vince,” she says.
He
nods his understanding.
“What
shall I tell Mom and Dad?”
“Tell
them I’m happy.”
They
stand looking at each other. She puts
the suitcase down and gives him an embarrassed kiss. He kisses her. “Thanks for everything,” she says.
He
says, “Take care of yourself. Say hello
to Tim and the kids.”
She
picks up her luggage and walks away. She
doesn’t look back. He watches her
go. When she disappears into a gray
building he gets into the car and drives off.
He
recognizes himself in the pine trees along the highway. They’re tall and straight with stiff green
needles. They bend little in a high
wind. No two grow in the same spot.
The
mountains remind him of her.
Soon
he’ll be on open land again, seeing old friends: red buttes and mesas, white
clouds and blue sky. Arnold will be back
from Walpi. “From now on, I’ll call you
Vinny,” he’ll say. They’ll laugh and
drink beers from the refrigerator.
Later, after Arnold has gone, Vince will look at himself in the hall
mirror and miss her.
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