Day of the Dead

by R. Allen Chappell

  “He didn’t say much but told me, when the time was right, he would be in touch.”

  Abraham now imagined Tressa was lying, keeping something from him. He narrowed an eye at her but said little else lest he undo what few feelings she might still harbor for him.

  The Sing

  Henry Bill showed up at Lucy Tallwoman’s house early the next day after receiving her message. She’d had to call his niece, who lived near enough to the highway to have a phone. Henry’s camp was a good distance away—down 491 past Naschitti, then well back into Coyote Canyon on the crossover road to Crownpoint. His niece had to drive him better than a hundred miles to his appointment; all the while doubting he’d actually been chosen to perform so complicated a ceremony as the Blessing Way.”

  Henry was old himself, nearly as old as Paul T’Sosi, and while he was not as well-known as some Hataaliis, he had once studied under Paul’s Uncle, the inimitable Elmore Shining Horse; this alone caused Lucy to think he might be able to do the healing ceremony just as her father remembered it. Both she and Thomas were acquainted with the Blessing Way and knew it was sometimes thought to be helpful in cases of mental confusion. Her father’s recent malaise of spirit and obviously wandering mind had the entire family worried. He had twice now wandered off, only to be brought back by neighbors. Paul T’Sosi, however, could not, by any form of coercion, be persuaded to visit the new clinic with its white doctors and formidable diagnostic machinery. “Everything in the place is white…it’s like walking into a snowstorm.” As though a machine could divine ills of the mind…or spirit. The old singer rebuked them each time the clinic was mentioned.

  The Blessing Way would be a good bit more expensive than the clinic, no matter who performed the ceremony, and that cost would fall directly upon Lucy and Thomas, the last of Paul’s known family. Even Thomas’s children would be called upon to help supply animals from their small flocks. The old man was the only grandfather they knew and they would be expected to help, and at the same time be proud to do their part. There were no other relatives to share this cost or work. Not that she and Thomas couldn’t afford it; her weavings were growing ever more popular. Distant collectors bought them through the local trader, acting as her agent. He’d sold her mother’s work even before hers, and Lucy suspected her own success was due in part, to her mother’s reputation. A few of the more knowledgeable collectors now competed for Lucy’s weaving. Some of the larger pieces were being purchased sight unseen even before leaving the loom. She occasionally thought of those pieces. At least one, she knew, was hanging on the wall of a New York penthouse. A patron once sent the trader a picture cut from a home decorating magazine of that early piece and it did not make Lucy Tallwoman happy to see it there. That was part of her on that wall—no matter the ch’iónit’t, woven in to allow her spirit’s release—a tiny bit of her always remained, and now it was locked up in a New York tower.

  ~~~~~~

  Old Paul T’Sosi had many friends who would attend a Blessing Way; word would spread like magic to the far reaches of the reservation. The Blessing Way was a popular ceremony—one that might improve the hozo of anyone attending.

  The old Singer was surprised to see Henry Bill show up at the door of his hogan. He could see by his daughter’s face what the venerable Hataalii was there for, yet manners alone decreed the man be made welcome. While appearing reticent at first, Paul, was secretly pleased to see his old friend regardless of purpose. The two old Singers quickly fell into talk of their early days as understudies to Paul’s famous uncle. Elmore Shining Horse made his reputation in a time when a Singer was greatly venerated among the people.

  Ignoring Henry’s niece, and Paul’s own daughter, the old men refused to go to the house, settling themselves instead in the more familiar surroundings of Paul’s hogan, a structure both felt more conducive to talk of holy things and any Diyin diné’e who might be attracted by their singing. When the women left, the pair proceeded to while away the afternoon with talk of the old days and barely touched on Paul’s declining health or what was to be done about it.

  Henry’s niece was content to follow Lucy to the house to help plan the proposed ceremony, including, of course, her uncle’s remuneration for so lengthy a cure. A Blessing Way often took nine days depending on what version might be performed. The niece felt her uncle should earn at least enough that she, too, might be paid a little something for helping out. She’d discussed the matter with her uncle on their way in that morning and had a figure in mind she considered reasonable.

  “This ceremony will take a lot out of my uncle,” she said. “People don’t realize how hard it is to get everything just right.” The niece intended to make the most of the opportunity. “He’s not in the best of health, himself, you know.”

  “Well, maybe if he cures my father, we could do a trade—hold a curing for him in return…maybe then each of us could break even on the thing.” Lucy knew this wasn’t what the niece wanted to hear and only threw it out as a bargaining chip to nip in the bud any unreasonable demands. The Navajo are shrewd traders and enjoy the negotiations in such transactions, small though the profits might be.

  As it turned out, the prescribed cost was reasonable, more so than Lucy would have thought. The feeding of so many people, on the other hand, still required a good deal of additional expense, not to mention considerable work on the part of the hosts. The major food items would consist of lamb and goat from their own flocks; that was what people preferred and expected, the niece agreed. The two women had nearly finished going over the logistics of the lengthy production when faint singing was heard from the hogan. The pair smiled at one another knowing things must be progressing as they hoped.

  When, finally, the two old men came to the house it was with the news they had come to a decision.

  “A full Blessing Way will not be needed after all,” Henry Bill said. “So, no invitations need be sent, or expensive preparations readied.” The two old men were in agreement; it would be best to first try an abbreviated form of the ceremony, perhaps taking only a day—two at the most. Henry Bill intended to concentrate on Paul’s particular symptoms and not include everything under the sun.

  Lucy knew such shorter chants were becoming more the norm these days, but questioned Henry Bill as to the effect, or lack of it, should they go with the lesser ceremony. The niece, for her part, was skeptical anticipating a much smaller return from the now shortened curing ritual. A request for a full Blessing Way did not come around every day and her disappointment in losing this one was obvious. The girl’s uncle, however, seemed somehow pleased with the conclusion, and there was no arguing with that.

  “Oh, I have talked for a long time to your father,” Henry Bill explained, “and we have come to the idea that a shorter cure might work just fine.” The two old men nodded in unison. “It’s not like he’s crazy you know.” Henry Bill said this, looking first in Lucy’s direction and then verifying it with her father who again nodded, attesting to the truth of the statement. “Paul only needs a little ‘adjustment’ to his hozo. We have studied on it and both of us, being well acquainted with the symptoms, have figured out what might be causing his. We are now together on the way it should be handled.” This seemed to conclude his diagnosis and prescription for a cure. He then looked to Paul T’Sosi that he might express his view of the matter.

  Paul didn’t hesitate, “I agree with my old friend here as to what needs to be done. I, too, think a day or so would be plenty.” Obviously, the old Singer was satisfied with the way things had gone, and in fact, already appeared to feel better just knowing the problem was out in the open and addressed in a fashion he could understand. That, in itself, seemed to bring some modicum of relief. Paul paused a moment before going on and directed his next thought to his daughter. “You know I don’t want to be a burden to anyone, but it is plain to me you people are not going to be satisfied until I have undergone some sort of treatment, for whatever it is you think is wrong with me. We will try this f
irst and see if there is any improvement. Henry Bill, here, knows what he is doing and will try his damnedest to fix me up.” This about summed it up for Paul, and looking toward the kitchen he asked, “Is the coffeepot on?”

  ~~~~~~

  Thomas Begay spent the better part of his day at the Yazzie place in an effort to straighten out some work Charlie had done on the driveway the previous afternoon. Sue called that morning in a dither, asking if he couldn’t drop by and run the tractor over the drive again—at least make it passible—before her husband got home and made it any worse.

  For days Sue had complained to anyone who would listen that the drive was like a washboard. It was about to shake her teeth loose, she said.

  Charlie, apparently tired of hearing it, had stomped out in a huff declaring his intention to fix it once and for all. It was almost too dark to see when he came in and he didn’t mention how the job turned out.

  Thomas shook his head as he drove up the lane, and saw, at once; the back-blade on the tractor had been angled too sharply, gouging out huge ruts in the graveled track. This would take a while, he thought. He would have to change implements first. This was a job for a box-blade with teeth set as far down as they would go. It would not be a quick operation. Thomas understood this kind of work and unlike Charlie, didn’t get in a hurry.

  The next few hours were spent putting the road in some semblance of order, and when Thomas finally did quit and turn off the tractor, he was satisfied the surface was at least as good as when Charlie began “smoothing it out a little,” as he put it. There were now none of those bone-jarring riffles said to be the original offenders.

  As it neared late afternoon Charlie Yazzie turned up the drive and saw Thomas putting the tractor away. He couldn’t help noticing the additional progress made on the road.

  Thomas met the Tribal unit as it pulled into the yard, and even before the window was half-down, he began to explain. He knew what his friend would be thinking. “I didn’t have anything else to do today and thought I’d run by and see if I could borrow your tractor.” He indicated the driveway with a push of his chin. “I saw where you’d worked on the road last night, so thought I’d might just as well make a pass or two on it before you got home…maybe save you a little time.”

  Charlie looked back down the road and nodded, I must have done better than I thought. “It didn’t take very much did it? I figured it was pretty good when I quit last night.”

  “Oh, no, I only had to touch it up here and there. Didn’t take long at all.” Thomas was a poker player and knew how to keep a straight face.

  “Well, you know you’re welcome to borrow that tractor anytime, you or Harley either one. You boys have pitched in on it, one way or the other, since we got the thing.”

  Thomas nodded back before saying; “I might pick it up the next day or so. I just wanted to drop by and make sure you wouldn’t be needing it.” Thomas and Harley didn’t have any actual money invested in the tractor but did occasionally do some maintenance on the diesel, and when they did borrow the tractor they always made sure to do some little job around the Yazzie place as well.

  Charlie got out of his truck and after eyeing the road again, expressed satisfaction with how it turned out. The two then, naturally enough, gravitated to the horse pen where Charlie pulled down a fresh bale of hay and Thomas put the hose in the tank before turning on the water. As the horses jostled for position at the feeders, the men leaned on the top rail and eyed the two equines. It is something people who live with livestock do. There was even something in the Bible about it, Charlie thought, something about “…it is the master’s eye that fatteneth the cattle.” He thought that was it. For many years he didn’t really understand what it meant.

  “Sue tells me you folks are having a curing chant for the old man. So, I’m guessing he’s still not any better?”

  “No, maybe a little worse, in fact. Lucy just thought she had to do something. It’ll be the weekend after next unless something changes. I told her to hold off inviting people ‘till we know for certain.” Thomas chuckled, “That old singer, Henry Bill, from over around Crownpoint will be in charge. I’ve heard he can be a little gnarly, if you know what I mean? But I expect he’ll get plenty of direction from Paul, so maybe it will work out okay.” He raised an eyebrow. “If it goes off, there’ll be plenty of people there, that’s for sure. My uncle Johnny up to Navajo Mountain may be coming down for it.”

  Charlie smiled. “I’m sure. Sue is already planning what food to bring.”

  Thomas scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt. “My nephew tells me you’ve been talking to some DEA agents…still not anything you can say about that, huh?”

  “You know I can’t say anything about privileged information, right?” Charlie shook his head at the ground. “You and Harley don’t seem to understand what ‘privileged information’ is, and your nephew, Billy Red Clay, shouldn’t have mentioned anything about it, either.” Charlie said these things as one friend to another, and no offense was meant, or taken.

  Thomas smiled and shrugged. “Oh, you know how it is out here, Charlie…Billy being clan and all… I just thought you might want to update me a little, that’s all.”

  Charlie sighed and pushed away from the corral, “Did you let John Nez know about Robert Ashki being out…and that I’d heard from Luca Tarango’s wife?

  “I told him, allright. He’d already heard about Robert Ashki being back, and just like I thought, he didn’t seem to give a damn. You know how Uncle John is…he don’t worry a whole hell of a lot about anything.” Thomas grinned. “I guess it runs in the Salt Clan. He said he’d talk to Ashki the first time he saw him around…if he ever does.” Thomas, who had been concentrating on the horses, directed Charlie’s gaze to the mare and shook his head. “She is a little pissy, isn’t she?” Then shrugging his shoulders as though his back might be bothering him, he returned to the talk at hand. “As far as the Mojado’s wife goes, John acted like that wasn’t worth thinking about either. That’s just how he is, Charlie; he deals with stuff when it happens and don’t spend time worrying about it ‘till he has to. He probably picked up that way of thinking over in ‘Nam.”

  Charlie looked toward the house as though expecting Sue to be peeking out the window at them, and she was, from behind the curtain. “Well, you were involved in both cases and if something does come up—I mean anything that might pose a problem for you, or the family—I will let you in on it. You can count on that. I don’t know much for certain about any of it just yet, but I’ll try to keep you posted if I hear.”

  “Fair enough then.” Thomas turned off the water. “We’ll be looking forward to seeing you people up at our place…weekend after next…don’t forget now.” Thomas pointed at the tractor shed. “I adjusted that blade a little, something must have gotten out of whack.”

  Charlie turned and looked at the rear end of the tractor. “It did seem like it was a little hard to control…maybe I should have used that box-blade with the rippers on it.”

  Thomas shuddered at the thought of his friend directing the rippers, but only nodded that Charlie might be right.

  ~~~~~~

  Charlie Yazzie was a morning person; everyone he knew was a morning person. Not many Diné he’d been around stayed up late at night unless they were young and bent on partying. The Yazzie family was generally in bed by nine, he himself generally up at the crack of dawn, with Sue and the kids not far behind. So, he was surprised when he went to put the coffee on the next morning. Looking out the kitchen window he saw DEA Agent Bob Freeman peeking back at him from behind the windshield of the blue “sneaker” unit.

  Charlie, bleary-eyed, peered back at the man for a moment before fully registering who he was. What th… He stood still, holding the coffee pot under the faucet as water poured over the rim. He shook his head as he poured off a good bit and motioned for the agent to get out and come in. He sat the pot back on the stove and went to open the door. Bob Freeman bounded up the steps seeming
fully awake, only his slept-in clothes gave him away; he’d obviously been out there a while.

  Charlie, deadpan, waved him through the door as he took down another cup. Following the agent to the table, he indicated a chair with its back to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

  Bob sat himself down and grinning sheepishly up at the investigator, said, “Sorry about the hour, Charlie. It seems your Dispatch Office isn’t manned all night.”

  “No, and there’s never anyone there on Saturday or Sunday either, Bob.” Charlie was attempting a smile as he said this but couldn’t quite pull it off, not in any recognizable form. “All our weekend business goes through Tribal’s dispatcher. There’s seldom anything urgent enough for us to be called out on, though it has happened from time to time.”

  The coffee began perking behind him and Charlie turned back to the stove and brought down the heat. “I hope this is something really important, Bob. My wife and kids will be up shortly, and I’d rather not have to explain you to her.”

  “I understand that, Charlie, and believe me, I won’t be making a habit of this. It’s just that something’s come up and I think you should be aware of it.”

  Charlie got up and closed the door leading to the bedrooms, then swung past the stove for the coffee. At the table he poured both cups full and started to push the sugar bowl over when the agent waved a finger no. It was the rare Indian who didn’t sweeten his coffee and Charlie thought this just another little difference between he and Bob. Charlie fixed his own cup, stirred it, and sat contemplating the man, before smiling, “This better be good, Bob.”

  “I wish it were good, but the fact is…it’s not. Our informant in the Sinaloa operation was badly beaten and stabbed last night up in Colorado.”