by Sarah Dreher
"Siyamtiwa didn't explain?"
Stoner shook her head.
"That old woman," Rose said with a laugh. "Never tells anything." She turned and walked away.
So great, great. Another of life's little unexplained mysteries.
I didn't ask for this. I carne out here for a vacation, a break from the pressure, an escape from screwed-up travel vouchers and homophobic grandmothers. And what do I get? My good friend nearly dies, coyotes stalk me at night, and try to make me lose my way in the desert. Old Indian women appear out of nowhere and give me gifts and orders—mostly orders. And Spirits, living, dead, and otherwise, feel free to prowl around in my personal space whenever the urge strikes.
And all I can do is piss my life away here in Tarantulaville while I wait for something to happen.
She slipped a hand into the pocket of her jeans and felt the bit of turquoise Gwen had found. It was warm from her body heat or from the sun, or...
Swell. Living rocks. This fits right in with petrified trees and Yellowstone Park and plants that wait a hundred years to germinate and three-headed goats, and other wonders of Nature.
She kicked dust and slammed the bunkhouse door behind her. The necklace Siyamtiwa had given her lay on the dresser. "Maybe it brings you good luck," the woman had said. "Maybe you need it."
She slipped it on. Yeah, I need it, all right.
There was a tentative knock on the door. She opened it. "Jimmy Goodnight."
"Hiya," the boy said. He peered through the screen expectantly.
Stoner hesitated. What's Western etiquette in this situation? Would it be rude not to ask him in? Or would entertaining him in what was essentially her bedroom lead to loose talk—older woman/ younger boy stuff?
Well, she wasn't planning on staying in town—such as it was—forever, and Jimmy Goodnight's reputation could probably profit from a little color enhancement. "Come on in,"she said.
He sidled into the room and looked around. "This is neat." He surveyed the array of articles on the dresser. "Is all this your stuff?"
"Mine and Gwen’s.” She laughed. "You sold me most of it, remember?"
His fingers lingered on the green-eyed doll. "That's a funny thing, huh?"
"Funny?"
"Yeah, funny to have around, like.”
"A friend gave it to me. What are you doing so far from Beale?"
He put the doll down. "Rockhounding. With Mr. Begay." He picked up a comb, turning it over is hands. "He knows where there's this vein of turquoise, just laying on the ground almost. We're gonna find it."
Sure, Stoner thought, just like he's going to get you out of Beale. "If he knows where it is, why not just go and get it?"
“We will," Jimmy Goodnight said as he inspected her snakebite kit. "Like, he pretty much knows where it is, but not exactly."
She sat on the bed to change from boots to sneakers. "It's an awful hot day to go tramping on the desert. I hope you went prepared.”
"It's not real hot down in the canyons." He grinned at her in the mirror. "Anyway, you don't hardly notice the heat when you're hunting for treasure."
Stoner felt a little tug of sympathy for him. "You'd really like to get away from here, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah." He looked down at the floor and shuffled his feet. "My Dad says I don't have the brains to go as far as Holbrook, much less some city. And I'm no good at sports, so nobody's gonna give me a scholarship or anything. But Mr. Begay, he says it ain't so hard to get out, you just have to want it bad enough, and get a kinda push."
"If it's all that easy, don't you think it's odd he hasn't gotten out?"
"Heck, no." He turned back to the dresser and took inventory again. "He can't go. Folks around here need him, 'cause his Dad had the service station and it's the only one around and folks depend on it. And the Indians wouldn't know what to do if he left. He says half of them would just roll over and starve to death. He says it's an awesome responsibility."
"Awesome," she muttered. "You know, Jimmy, Indians are just like the rest of us. I'll bet, if Mr. Begay really wanted to get out of here, he could find someone to buy the station."
"But he really cares about them."
She decided not to argue the point. 'Where is he now? At the trading post?"
"Naw, he had to get back"
"How will you get home?"
"Hitch."
"That's kind of dangerous," Stoner said. “Why don't I give you a lift?"
"Dangerous?" He looked at her quizzically. "I hitch all the time."
Right, boys do that. This is, after all, the United States, where boys—particularly boys over fifteen—can do pretty much what they want, when they want. It's girls who have to be careful. Girls who can't do things like hitch hike across the country meeting interesting people and having adventures. Because of the boys.
She noticed him staring at her necklace.
“Where'd you get that?" he asked.
"From a friend."
"Can I see it?"
She took it off and handed it to him. He gave it a cursory glance, and looked up at her. "I'm awful thirsty. Could I have a drink of water?"
"Sure. Come up to the kitchen." She held out her hand for the necklace.
He seemed reluctant to part with it. "It's pretty," he said. "Must be real valuable."
"I don't think so. It's mostly sentimental value."
He appeared uncomfortable, blushing and hesitating, as if uncertain what to do. Did he want to steal the necklace? She found that unlikely. Her instincts told her Jimmy Goodnight wasn't a thief. He looked... almost as if someone had told him to take it.
He shoved it at her, and smiled a little apologetically. "I really just came by to see how you are," he said as he followed her up the path.
“We're doing very well. Thank you for asking."
"Mrs. Perkins okay?"
"Much better."
"That was pretty scary, huh?"
"About as scary as I can stand," Stoner said.
He hesitated at the kitchen door. "I really oughta get truckin'."
"At least stop and say hello to Gwen."
He turned as pink as the undersides of the clouds out where the sun was setting. "Oh, gosh, I don't know..."
Gwen appeared at the door. “Well, James, what brings you into this neck of the woods?"
He darted her a glance. "Could-I-have-a-drink-of-water?"he mumbled.
"Certainly. Want to come in?"
"Can't."
Gwen brought him a glass. He swallowed it in three gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing like a buoy.
"Thanks-I-gotta-go."
“Wait a minute," Stoner said. "Did you happen to bring the mail?"
"Me?" Jimmy Goodnight said. "Naw."
Before she could repeat her offer of a lift, he was gone.
Stoner watched him go. “I think you have an admirer," she said to Gwen.
"It's being a teacher. It sends them into paroxysms of ambivalence."
Stoner went inside and picked up the pile of first-class mail. "Anything from your grandmother?"
"Not a word." She sighed. "Guess it's time to call." She glanced at her watch. "It's two hours later there. I could do it any time."
Stoner looked at her. At her soft, waving hair. At her strong, sure hands—hands that moved with unconscious grace. At the startling depth of her dark eyes. How could anyone, she thought, want to do anything to hurt her?
She found her voice. “What are you going to say?"
"I don't know. Play it by ear, I guess."
“Want to have dinner first?"
Gwen shook her head. "I'd only pick at it. The truth is, I'm all of a sudden terrified."
Stoner touched her. "I wish I knew what to do."
"Tell me I'm not being ridiculous."
"You're not being ridiculous."
"Tell me there's a chance..."
"There's always a chance." She tilted Gwen's face up and looked into her eyes, holding them with her own. "I promise you, Gwen, what
ever happens, whatever she does, whatever you do, I'll stand by you. Always."
Gwen rested her head against Stoner's chest. "I love you so much.
Why does it have to be such a problem?"
Stoner stroked her hair. "Because we live in an imperfect world."
"That," Gwen said with a small laugh, "is not a comforting thought." She pulled herself together. "Care to listen in?"
"I don't know."
"I would." She went into the sitting room. "I'll call from the store. Use the extension in here."
Stoner stared at the phone. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe it would be better not to know. Maybe... She saw Gwen gesture, and picked up the receiver.
Eleanor Burton's phone rang once, twice, three times. Not home. She started to hang up.
"Hello?" Mrs. Burton's voice was far away and static-y.
"Hello, Grandmother."
A pause. "Gwyneth?"
"Yes."
“Where are you?"
"Still in Arizona."
"Are you having a nice time."
"Yes, we are."
"I'm so glad," Mrs. Burton said.
Hope began to stir. She could see it in Gwen's face.
"How is Stoner?"
"Fine. Stell was under the weather for a while, but she's feeling better." Gwen was grinning from ear to ear.
Don't jump to conclusions, Stoner thought cautiously. One of the games played around this is: Pretend Nothing Ever Happened and Hope It’ll Go Away. Then you have to go through it all again. “
Well," Mrs. Burton said, "I hope you're having a wonderful, wonderful time out there."
“We are," Gwen said. "Grandmother, are you all right?"
Eleanor Burton laughed. "Of course, dear. Whatever would make you think..."
“We didn't exactly part on a friendly note."
"I know. And I'm so sorry about that, I could lie down and die. It's been an absolute nightmare."
Gwen's eyes were shining.
Stoner had a distinctly uneasy feeling.
"I miss you, Grandmother," Gwen said, her voice husky with emotion. "I love you."
"And I love you too, Gwyneth. How long are you planning to be away?"
Gwen glanced at her. Stoner shrugged.
“We're not sure. Stell isn't ready to take over the trading post yet, and we want to do some sightseeing after she gets back A couple of weeks, I guess."
There was a brief pause. "Dear," said Mrs. Burton, "do you suppose you could be home by the twenty-seventh?"
"I guess so, if we cut it close. Why?"
"You have a doctor's appointment."
Gwen frowned. "I do? I don't remember that."
"You didn't make it." Mrs. Burton sounded flustered. "I did it for you. Not with a real doctor, just a psychologist, but he comes very highly recommended..."
Stoner felt the blood drain from her face.
"Grandmother," Gwen said, "I don't understand what you're saying."
"He's a very nice young man, Gwyneth, and he's had a great deal of success with cases like yours. The minister says..."
“With cases like mine?" Gwen interrupted.
“Well... people who are... confused."
"I'm not confused."
"Of course you are, dear."
"Did you talk to Edith Kesselbaum about this?"
"That dreadful, dreadful woman," Mrs. Burton said. "Not only does she condone—condone, mind you—this terrible thing, she had the nerve to suggest that I'm the one with the problem."
"Good for her," Gwen snapped. '
"It's all right, dear," Mrs. Burton said placidly. "Dr. Paul warned me you might react like this."
Gwen's face was scarlet. "It is not all right. I'm very happy with what I am, Grandmother. So you can tell your Dr. Paul to take his successful cases and shove them. And you along with them."
She slammed down the receiver.
Stoner hung up silently.
“Well," Gwen said, "now I know where we stand." She walked slowly into the kitchen.
"Gwen..."
"Think you can handle supper? I don't trust myself." Her face was unreadable.
"Gwen..."
She was calm, too calm. "I think I'll take a walk"
"It'll be dark in half an hour."
"I'll be back by then." She started out the door.
Stoner caught her arm. "I can't let you go off like this. Please tell me what's going on."
"I'm fine. I need to be alone for a while, okay?"
Stoner didn't know what to do. She felt large and awkward.
"I'll walk up past Long Mesa, that's all. I won't leave the road."
"I don't think you should."
Suddenly, unexpectedly, Gwen's eyes flashed fire. "Leave me alone!" She yanked her arm from Stoner's grasp. "Damn it, just leave me alone!"
The door closed behind her.
Stoner watched through the window until she was out of sight behind the mesa.
Clouds had gathered over the mountains, high and puffy. The setting sun painted them with blood.
I shouldn't have let her go, Stoner thought.
She's not a child. She has the right to be alone if she wants. Gwen Owens is a perfectly mature, sensible adult.
A sensible adult who married a man who wanted to kill her and nearly succeeded. Who got herself beaten up in a dark alley in Maine. Who decided to come out to her grandmother on the hottest night of the year after they'd lost two straight rubbers of bridge.
This perfectly mature, sensible adult is now wandering somewhere out beyond Long Mesa in a land full of snakes and Skin-walkers and sorcerers and Larch Begays and ghosts and the spirits of homeless babies and women dying of the Ya Ya’s-and God only knows what else.
And all I can do is stand around wondering what to have for dinner. Chicken? There's a chicken in the freezer. But it would take all night to thaw, and it's too hot to cook chicken.
She scanned the refrigerator and shelves. Chili? Hot dogs and beans?
Damn you Eleanor Burton. You must know what this does to her. You must hold love in very low esteem, to throw it away so easily.
I could make an omelette, but I've never seen Gwen eat an omelette. Maybe she doesn't like them. I don't like them, but if I don't chew it too much, and swallow real fast, and try not to think about it, and forget they have the texture of slimy cotton, I might be able to handle it.
There are a thousand different ways to love, but hate is hate no matter how you slice it.
This has the makings of a hard-rock-heavy-metal-Motown-rap-protest song.
Come on, all you dykes and tykes, let's all get down and boogie to the Homophobia Blues.
The clouds had turned from red to gold, with silver only minutes away. The sky took on a lavender tinge.
Whatever happened to Lavender Jane?
She's perfectly well and she hasn't a pain,
And they've closed down the Lesbian Disco again.
Oh, whatever happened to Lavender Jane?
Make dinner, not war.
This occasion calls for something disgusting. Depression food. Like Sweet and Sour hamburger with pineapple chunks and coconut topped with pecans and mushrooms braised in white wine, served on a fluffy mound of Minute Rice with peppers and snails. And for dessert, the head of Eleanor Burton a la mode.
She scrubbed at her face with the palms of her hands. This is not healthy behavior. This is behavior of a useless and futile variety. This is behavior for which one is looked at strangely on the street, while small boys point grubby fingers and chant cruelly as you pass by.
Damn it, she thought as the twilight deepened, why does it have to be so hard? Lovers of women. We can't change that, wouldn't change it if we could. But we're not asking for medals, only to exist without having to justify our existence.
Small destructive children exist. Adolescents on skateboards exist. Politicians, TV Evangelists, bus exhaust, skunks, the National Rifle Association, players of loud rock music, the Christian Broadcasting Ne
twork, stock brokers, Yuppies, professional wrestlers, door-to-door-salesmen—they're all allowed to exist, and those are only the everyday horrors.
When the sky turned purple, she began to feel uneasy. She turned on a few lights and went to stand on the porch, peering up the road, searching for Gwen in the near-darkness.
An hour later, night had settled in for good. Fighting off the fear that turned her stomach into a swarm of stinging bees, she took a flashlight and went looking.
* * *
Grandmother Eagle opened her eyes. The night silence hummed around her. She fluttered her wings anxiously. She had only meant to nap, to wake before dusk, before the Danger Time. Sleep and dust made her tongue as dry as an aspen leaf in October, but she didn't dare take time to drink.
Tight with apprehension, she hurled herself into the night sky. She picked up the glow of Green-eyes' flashlight on the north side of Long Mesa. The Two-leg walked slowly, searching the ground. She stopped and knelt, and Kwahu's sharp eyes saw what she saw—two sets of foot prints, one belonging to the companion, the other the prints of Hosteen Coyote.
Green-eyes stood, puzzled, looking here and there in the darkness. She called the companion's name, waited, and called again.
Eagle circled high, scanning the desert for movement. She saw a handful of Night People—mice, she thought—near Dinnebito Wash. A fox prowled and sniffed among the rabbit brush on Black Mesa. Two young Dineh, newly married, made love under the stars near Betatakin. But no Hosteen Coyote, and no companion.
Green-eyes was still calling, her voice rusty with fear. Kwahu swooped low over her head, and let the air whistle through her feathers. The woman looked up. Their eyes met.
Eagle sent her words. "The companion isn't here. Go home and wait. I will do what I can."
She pumped against the air and went to find Siyamtiwa.
* * *
Stoner stood alone in the desert, fear running through her in waves. The footprints, Gwen's and the coyote's, had disappeared on rocky ground. And the bird—the bird had seemed to know what she was doing, which was ridiculous. It was only fear making her mind play tricks.
Gwen must have wandered off the road, anger propelling her in random directions. The coyote? Who knew how long those tracks had been there? Probably since the last rain. This wasn't a fairy tale. Gwen hadn't gone off for a stroll with a coyote.
